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DICK’S WANDERIKG 


A NOVEL . 





BY 


JULIAN STUEGIS 

ACTHol OF 

** JOHN MAIDMENT,” “ AN ACCOMPLISHED GENTLEMAN,'* 
“ JOHN-A-DREAMS,” ETC. 


‘J' 



UBRARY 

OF THE 

SUP.'.COUNCIL, 

SO,‘.JURISDiCTiON- 


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NEW YORK 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 

1887 





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Exchange 

Supreme CGufich A.A.S.n. 

Aug i 0,1940 ' 


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DICK’S WAKDERUSTG. 


CHAPTER I, 

The world had been very kind of late to John Wil- 
mading Kirby, Member for Redgate. Mr. Kirby was 
fond of acknowfedging the kindness of the world ; but 
he always added to this frank acknowledgment an abrupt 
nod and a smile, which seemed to hint that it would 
have gone ill with the world if it had not been kind to 
him. It was well for the world that (to use one of the 
Member’s good plain words) it had squared Mr. Kirby. 
Had it been necessary for the success of this determined 
person that the framework of Society should fall in 
ruins about him, he would have been found among the 
shattered fragments of the Philistine temple, still con- 
scious of his justice and of his uncommon tenacity. 

Perhaps Mr. Kirby had never been better pleased 
with the order of the universe than on this evening in 
April. The causes of his contentment were many and 
sufficient. In the first place Nature was doing her duty. 
The evening was so soft and beautiful that one of the 
curtains of the dining-room had been drawn aside, and 
the long window stood open to the air. The politician, 
sitting at ease in a big arm-chair, with his glass of good 
claret at his hand and the wood-fire cheerful at his feet, 
in a comfortable corner where there was no suspicion of 


9 


dick’s wandering. 


draughts, allowed his eyes to rest on the smooth lawn, 
where above the dark mass of a great cedar a single 
star was shining. Nor was his pleasure limited by his 
vision ; for his progressive mind went leisurely out into 
the twilight, and considered the wide park, all grassy 
slopes and hollows and majestic trees ; the stables ; the 
flower-garden ; the kitchen-garden ; the orchard ; the 
coverts ; the cricket-ground ; the prosperous farms, whose 
occupants were punctual with their rent. Now all these 
things were very pleasant to this sanguine gentleman, 
though none of them would ever come to him. It made 
him glow and chuckle to think that this fine property 
was waiting for his young cousin, Dick Hartland ; and 
that every day of the boy's long minority was increasing 
its value in the market. Mr. Kirby’s heart, which 
always warmed towards prosperity, glowed with seven- 
fold ardor at the prosperity of a kinsman. lie had a 
very strong and genuine feeling for his kin. He liked to 
push on a relation almost as well as to push on himself. 
He could not stand a fellow, as he would say with or 
without an oath, who would not stick through thick and 
thin to his own flesh and blood. In Mr. Kirby himself 
the family blood was of the reddest, and the family flesh 
bountiful and firm. Too luxurious a diet was not good 
for him ; and so it may be said that the second cause of 
his contentment on this April evening was the care which 
he had taken of himself since the end of last year’s ses- 
sion. He had been living in the bosom of his family, 
taking regular exercise, avoiding political discussion 
where there was any possibility of irritating contradic 
tion, eating less than usual, and counteracting his moder- 
ate cups with frequent bumpers of Vichy water. He 
was like a giant refreshed ; and he had brought his vig 


dick’s wandering. 


3 


Drous digestion to a most comfortable old English coun- 
try - house, where the cook was above criticism. More- 
over, the lady of the house, his cousin, mother of the 
heir (and this may be reckoned as another cause of con- 
tentment), was a charming hostess. He liked to say of 
her that she was the nicest little woman in the world. 
To the pleasant abode of a most pleasant lady he had 
come without his wife and with all the freedom of a 
bachelor ; and the man, who had been asked to meet him, 
was his old friend, Mrs. Hartland’s brother-in-law, Her- 
vie Langdon, who, clever fellow though he was, liked 
better to listen than to talk. 

Ail these were causes of pleasure ; but stronger than 
any one of these was the fact that, after a silence long 
as the winter-sleep of the dormouse, he was going to 
make a speech, and to make it under the most favorable 
conditions. He was to be conveyed in a comfortable 
carriage to the neighboring town of Redgate ; and to 
speak in the famous “ Institute,’’ which he knew to be 
well warmed and well ventilated. He knew the audi- 
ence well, too, and knew that they admired their stout 
member heartily. He knew also that all reporters were 
to be excluded. 

Mr. Kirby was happy. His glass stood on a little 
table beside him ; his napkin lay loose across his ample 
waistcoat ; his big legs were pushed towards the fire. 
He was every inch a prosperous gentleman, — and there 
were many inches. 

“ You may depend upon it,” said Mr. Kirby, with a 
slow wink, “ that they won’t last another session. Their 
policy is the dam’dest stuff and nonsense. The country 
is sick of it.” 

“And who is the country ? ” asked Hervie Langdon, 


4 


dick’s wandering. 


who was silting on the other side of the fire with one of 
his short legs crossed over the other ; he was smiling 
under his thick beard, as his manner was. 

‘‘ Everybody ’s sick of them,’’ continued the politician. 
“ Society ’s tired of ’em, and wants a change of perform- 
ers ; the workingmen bate ’em ; and the middle class are 
angry, because trade ’s bad.” 

“ Is that the fault of the Government ? ” 

Mr. Kirby pulled himself up in his chair, pulled down 
his waistcoat, took his coffee from the footman, and 
finally winked. “ That ’s as may be,” he answered. 

Those fellows don’t discriminate. They ain’t edu- 
cated up to it. Nobody knows better than you, my dear 
Hervie, what English middle-class education is.” 

Hervie Langdon nodded and raised his fine eyebrows. 

“ They are taught to calculate interest,” continued 
the other ; that ’s what middle-class education is. And 
when they go into business they find tables where the 
interest is calculated for them. They are strong enough 
to smash this Government, or any Government, if it 
comes to that ; but they are the stupidest class in Eu- 
rope, bar none.” Here Mr. Kirby paused, struck a 
match, lighted the cigar which he had been holding be- 
tween two of his big fingers, blew a light cloud, and 
then removing the cigar from his lips, delivered himself 
of this remarkable statement : “ The middle class are 
fools.” 

The smile which had been twinkling in Hervie Lang- 
don’s eyes and lifting the corners of his moustache 
changed suddenly into one of those hearty bursts of 
laughter, which had never failed to surprise Mr. Kirby 
during a friendship of twenty years or more. Mr. 
Langdon lay back in his chair, and laughed as he never 


dick’s wandering. 


6 


laughed at any of his friend’s jokes, till he was obliged 
to wipe his eyes. As the noise of his laughter died 
away, a small boy, who was half hidden behind his chair, 
asked innocently, “ Are they all fools ? ” 

“ Hullo ! ” said Hervie Langdon ; what are you doing 
here, young man ? Why did n’t you go with the other 
children ? ” 

He put his hand back and drew his little nephew into 
the fuller light. In this light Dick Hartland’s brown 
hair, which was rather rough, showed a decidedly yel- 
low tinge. In his mother’s possession was a fine pale 
wisp, which proved to her satisfaction at least that her 
baby had been a golden-haired baby. Everybody liked 
the boy’s looks, though perhaps he had few claims to 
beauty. His skin was clear, if somewhat freckled ; his 
forehead was wide, and there was good space between 
his blue eyes ; the cheek-bones looked as if they might be 
prominent when the cheeks had lost their childish round- 
ness, and the chin was rather square. Dragged from his 
post of observation, this little hero showed no embar- 
rassment in the presence of his elders. He looked his 
uncle Hervie in the face with his inquiring eyes, as he 
answered him. 

“ I like to stay with the men,” he said ; and I like 
politics.” 

Ho, ho ! ” cried Mr. Kirby, who was sucking at his 
big cigar ; he blew a great ring of smoke, and chuckled. 

But is it true, uncle Hervie,” asked the boy, that 
all the middle class are fools ? ” Mr. Langdon drew his 
nephew on to the arm of his chair, and, pointing his cig- 
arette at his distinguished friend, said shortly, Ask 
him ; he ’s a great Liberal ; he ought to know.” 

“I won’t speak ex said Mr. Kirby, with a 


6 


dick’s wandering. 


wondrous knowing look ; not ex cathedra^ as I may 
say, ha, ha ! He laughed, but on this occasion his 
friend did not. 

“ You be oft to your mother,” Mr. Langdon said to 
Dick ; “ and tell Ossie and Betty to go to bed. Good- 
night, dear boy ; and put off being a politician as long 
as you can.” 

“ Why ? ” asked Dick, pushing his hair back from 
his forehead, and preparing to receive instruction ; but 
his uncle only patted his cheek, and smiled as usual. 
His uncle Hervie’s smiles were very mysterious to Dick, 
in part, perhaps, because they took place under cover 
of his beard. They seemed to mean a great deal to the 
little boy. He used to* think about them when he was 
alone. 

Now it happened that on that evening Mr. Langdon’s 
son had not waited for his father’s commands, but had 
gone to bed because he felt lazy, as he often did. There 
fore Master Osbert was already drifting peacefully to- 
wards slumber, when he was disturbed by the sudden en- 
trance of his cousin. Dick was very wide awake, and 
seemed even more so ; he had the air of a conspirator ; he 
advanced on tiptoe, and spoke in a hoarse, unnatural whis- 
per ; he was possessed by a mighty purpose, intent on 
great adventure. “ Ossie, Ossie ! ” he whispered. There 
was no answer but a kind of grunt. Get up,” said 
Dick. There came from under the bedclothes a sound 
like “ Whoffor.” 

Encouraged by this sign of intelligence, Dick took a 
lying leap on to the bed. ‘‘ Oh, do get up,” he said, 
dragging the clothes from his reluctant cousin’s chin ; 
“ don’t be so awfully lazy. It ’s such a splendid plan ; 
we ’ll get out, and get on to the back of the carriage, and 


dick’s wandering. 


7 


go to Redgate without old Peter knowing, and hear him 
speak.’’ Now Peter ” was the name which these little 
boys, for some humorous reason only known to them- 
selves, had conferred upon Mr. John Wilmading Kirby. 

‘‘ There is n’t any fun in hearing a speech,” said Ossie 
sle^ily. 

‘‘ Not if we make a row in the middle of it ? ” asked 
Dick triumphantly. 

Ah ! ” Ossie’s interest was at last aroused, but not 
for long. It ’s very jolly here,” he said plaintively, 
after a minute; ‘‘good-night.” He had been secretly 
getting a good hold on the blankets. 

“ Ah, would you ? ” cried Dick, and with a dexterous 
jerk he pulled all the bedclothes on to the floor. 

Thus suddenly deprived of the warmth and drowsi- 
ness which he loved, defenceless and almost naked. Mas- 
ter Osbert Langdon had a good chance of displaying his 
extraordinary amiability. He sat up on his bed, clasped 
his hands in front of his shins, rested his chin on his 
knees, yawned, and stared at his cousin with eyes which 
seemed to be opened to an unnatural roundness. He 
even smiled as he said plaintively, “ You always expect 
everybody to do what you want.” 

“ No, I don’t,” said Dick ; “ I only want them to do 
what they ought. You ought to get up. Oh, do look 
sharp, or we shall be too late ; here ’s your shirt ; I ’ll 
help you.” As Ossie grew more wakeful; his natural 
taste for mischief grew stronger and stronger. It was 
not long before the two little boys were stealing down 
Jie passage, with their shoes in their hands, and the spirit 
of adventure in their hearts. 


CHAPTER 11. 


Mr. Kirby was in great force, and knew it. The 
sound of his own voice was pleasant in his ears. It 
may be said that for six months or more he had not 
heard that voice raised to public pitch ; for during the 
short session before Easter he had scarcely opened his 
full lips. As he spoke, his mind was half busy with frag- 
ments of other speeches, which delivered in his other 
manner would soon be persuading or denouncing his fel- 
low-members of the Lower House. But if his thoughts 
strayed sometimes to the more important arena, he con- 
tinued to address with due weight and friendly hearti- 
ness his admiring audience of the Redgate Institute. 

The hall of the Institute was full and fusty. Since the 
consumption of gas was most liberal, it was hard to ac- 
count for the subtle smell of the smoke of cheap candles. 
Hervie Langdon, who was fond of speculating on matters 
of this sort, connected it in some way with muffins and 
tea in the parlor behind the shop. Certainly the greater 
part of the audience might well have come from such 
succulent tea-tables as his fancy painted ; for the small 
tradesmen of Redgate were there in force, and had 
brought with them their wives and daughters. Nor were 
these latter slack in their zeal for the distinguished poli- 
tician ; for if they held him second to the itinerant con- 
jurer, who sometimes appeared on that same platform, it 
was only by so much as conjuring seemed more impor- 
tant than politics. But though the body of the hall was 


dick’s wandering. 


9 


filled by Redgate shopkeepers and their womankind, 
there was still room on the floor for a small audience 
of a widely different character. Behind the tradesfolk 
there was a small company of laborers, who had plodded 
in from a suburban beer-shop under the guidance of 
old Durley, professional rat-catcher, frequent poacher, 
and occasional sub-agent in seasons of political excite- 
ment. Old Durley bore an unfortunate likeness to one 
of his own ferrets. It is to be feared too that he re- 
garded ferrets and politicians with somewhat similar 
feelings ; he liked to see them at work, and he loved to 
profit by their labors. On the platform with the orator 
there were, besides Mr. Langdon, a gentleman supposed 
to be of Portuguese origin, with fat dark hands, who 
repi'esented the landed interest ; a very substantial farm- 
er, who was Dick Hartland’s chief tentant ; and the Vic- 
ar, a large pale man, determined not to be fidgety, who, 
in spite of his conscientious efforts after an air of good- 
fellowship and equality, could not but look like a shep- 
herd with a nervous eye upon his flock. In the centre 
of the stage, with his broad back turned to the picture 
of the late Mayor, to whose munificence the town was 
indebted for that useful building, stood Mr. Kirby and 
addressed his countrymen. In every corner of the room 
before him was brilliant light, except under the gallery 
opposite, which had been designed for a band, if ever a 
ball should be given in that place. Under the gallery 
was darkness, if not vacancy. 

The orator had warmed to his work ; the greater part 
of his task was done ; every moment he became more 
knowing, more friendly, more popular. It is no good 
my trying to deceive you,” he said, — to humbug you, 
if you will forgive the expression. You know as well 


10 


dick’s wandering. 


as I do what this Government has done ; or rather what 
they have left undone. It don’t need much of a man 
to tell us what they have done ; for it ’s next to nothing. 
They tell us that their great claim to our confidence is 
— that they have let us alone — that they have not 
worried our industries. But what I say — and I am a 
practical man — that ’s my boast — what I say is that 
we don’t pay a lot of fellows to do nothing. (“ Hear, 
hear,” cried one of the retail traders.) The public ser- 
vants must earn their wages. Then they tell us that 
they have no time to do anything for us. Why ? Be- 
cause they are so busy with foreign affairs. But I say 
that it is time to let our neighbors alone. Mind your 
own business, say I, and let these foreigners alone. 
Do something for me — for us. We ain’t foreigners. 
(“ Hear, hear,” cried Mr. Leon Gonzales, conscious of 
his stake in the country.) 

“ Now perhaps you will ask me — for you are sensible 
practical men, as I hope I am — perhaps you will ask 
me what we — that is, what our party will do for you, 
if we come in — and come in we shall — and soon. 
(“ The sooner the better,” cried Mr. Hopkins the chem- 
ist, who frequently took part in penny-readings, and was 
not afraid to be heard. This criticism from one of them- 
selves was greeted with much approval, and some cries 
of “ ’Ear, ’ear, ’Opkins,” “ Good for you. Bill,” and 
such like. During the clamor the orator had the air of 
one who is agreeably surprised by the discovery of ex- 
traordinary local talent.) Yes, gentlemen, the sooner 
the better, if I may borrow the felicitous phrase of my 
good friend William Hopkins. (Applause.) Now I 
have no right to speak for the coming Government 

Yes, you have,” cried Mr. Hopkins.) No, no, my 


dick’s wandering. 


11 


friend. I wish I never had to disagree with you. I 
feel safer when you and I are of one mind. But I say, 
No. I speak to you as a plain man to plain men — a 
friend among friends. And as a friepd among friends 
— (applause) — I may speak my mind freely. I ’ll tell 
you what I think our people will do for you, when they 
come in. I speak for myself. I never was afraid to 
speak my mind. I am not afraid now. (Hear, hear.) 
What I think, I speak ; and what I speak may go forth 
from this place — this beautiful hall of yours — - (loud 
applause) — may go forth I say, and be repeated through 
the length and breadth and depth and height of this 
great country. (Loud applause and stamping of the 
feet, during which demonstration the orator whispered 
to Mr. Langdon, You are sure there ’s not a reporter ? ” 
Certain,” answered his friend ; “ Hopkins saw to it. 
Give it them strong; they like it.” Hervia Langdon 
seemed to derive a peculiar pleasure from the perform- 
ance.) It is not hard to tell you what we — what they 
will do for you. They will institute a great policy of 
economy, a far-reaching and minute economy. Every- 
thing shall be done a little cheaper. AJl of you shall 
be a little richer on account of our care and pains. We 
are practical men ; we appeal to your pocket. (Laugh- 
ter and applause. As the sounds subsided, Mr. Kirby 
caught the eye of old Durley the rat-catcher, and he gave 
him something like a wink as he began again.) But 
there is something else which, unless I am much mis- 
taken — (“ Not likely,” said Mr. Hopkins, with a know- 
ing nod) — you will get out of the Government which is 
to be. That something is a great Liberal measure. I 
for one am not afraid to trust the people of England, 
There may be more prudent men than I. Don’t let us 


12 


dick’s wandering. 


undervalue prudence. (Applause from the body o£ the 
hall.) But there are other virtues besides prudence. 
There are courage and honesty. Give me the honest 
and the brave, and I will give them votes. (A voice, 
“ And they ’ll give their votes to you.” It was the high, 
peculiar voice of old Durley.) And I am not above tak- 
ing ’em. (Laughter.) Some people want to draw nice 
distinctions. Some say, — Give the vote to Tom, and 
not to Dick ; or to Dick, and not to Harry. But I 
don’t value these nice distinctions. I am of a wider gen- 
erosity. My heart has room for you all. I say, Give 
’em all votes — give a vote to Tom, to Dick, and to 
Harry. (Here Durley jogged the elbow of the man 
next to him, and from his little knot of laborers came 
presently a slow bovine cheer.) I don’t want to give 
a vote to the man who pays £10, and to refuse it to the 
man who pays £9, 10s. Some people value this sort of 
wire-drawing business. I don’t. I am well content that 
the Government of this great country should be done by 
this great people ; not by him who has so much, or by 
him who has so little ; but by all who have that chief 
possession — that inestimable wealth — that proud title 
by which the pomp of emperor and king grows pale — 
the sacred name of Englishman. (The applause was 
led by Mr. Gonzales, who in the enthusiasm of the mo- 
ment almost made up his mind to double his subscription 
to the Hunt.) But don’t let us be in a hurry. (Ap- 
plause from the body of the hall, where the enthusiasm 
had been visibly cooling.) Fairly, and softly. When 
are we to have this great democratic measure ? W^hcn ? 
I can’t tell you. Can you tell me? You can judge at 
least as well as I — you the able and honest gentlemen 
whom I see before me — you the representatives of that 


dick’s wandering. 


13 


commerce which is the pride and glory of England — 
that commerce so safe and so enterprising — Hear, 
hear,” from Peaseley the grocer, who had just opened a 
little branch-shop in the village of Glaring) — you who 
are for reform without revolution, for progress on the 
straight lines of the ledger — you the bone and sinew of 
our country — you the representatives of that great 
middle class, from which I am myself so proud to have 
sprung,” 

When the orator paused, there was a moment’s silence, 
during which old Dunderd the clerk woke with a start, 
and probably under a false impression cried, ‘‘ Amen.” 
Then laughter was smothered in applause ; and boots and 
umbrellas thumped the floor. As the surging sounds 
subsided, there was heard a clear young voice calling — 
“ Peter ! Peter ! ” Hervie Langdon leaned quickly for- 
ward in his chair, and stared into the darkness under 
the opposite gallery. Mr. Kirby, who was not very 
quick to hear, held up a large hand with fingers out- 
spread; and, when silence was secured, asked in his 
fullest and most patronizing tone, ‘‘Did I not hear some- 
body ask a question ? ” He waited with a tolerant smile ; 
he had the air of one who was about to crush a beetle 
in the kindest possible manner, but to crush it. Then 
uttered in the same clear treble came the words, “ You 
said the middle class were fools.” 

“ Eh ? what ? what ? ” cried Mr. Kirby astonished : 
“ what ’s that ? ” 

“ Did n’t he, uncle Hervie ? It was when you were 
smoking after dinner. Did n’t he tell you that the mid- 
dle class were fools ? ” 

After these words there was a remarkable silence. 
Then old Durley’s beery chuckle was heard : “ So they 


14 


dick’s wandering. 


be,” he muttered. Then Mr. Langdon, on the elevated 
platform, in the face of that important assembly of his 
countrymen, burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. 
Still wiping his eyes he rose from his chair ; and, while 
the worthy tradesmen stared with profound wonder at 
the extraordinary humor of the thick-set bearded gen- 
tleman before them, he called over their heads to his 
friend Durley. ‘‘ Durley,” he said, ‘‘ just look under 
the gallery for my nephew.” The venerable rat-catcher 
slipped back quick as a ferret in a rabbit-warren ; but 
he presently emerged from’ the darkness with his head 
shaking, and protested that he could find nothing but an 
open window. The solid shopkeepers were still staring 
suspiciously at Mr. Langdon ; and that gentleman now 
took his hands out of his pockets and addressed them. 
“ That was my nephew,” he said ; he is a nice boy, but 
mischievous. You all know what boys are. You were 
boys yourselves — except the best of you who were 
lucky enough to be girls — are girls how if my short- 
sighted eyes don’t deceive me.” This well-timed allu- 
sion set all the ladies bridling and giggling, while it 
turned the thoughts of their male companions into a 
familiar channel of jocosity. After a time of nudging 
and laughter, during which Hervie Langdon put his 
hands back in his pockets and stood smiling, he wound 
up his oration with great speed. “ One does not answer 
little boys,” he said, — “ except with the birch-rod. You 
know our distinguished friend — the great statesman 
who has talked to us this evening. You know him ; and 
you won’t call him names, nor he you. I need hardly 
repeat that he won’t call you namesi There is confi- 
dence and mutual respect between you; All I have to 
do is to ask you to join cordially and unanimously with 


dick’s wandering. 


15 


me in passing by acclamation a vote of thanks to our 
distinguished friend, the Member for this enlightened 
borough, John Wilmading Kirby.” As he sat down, 
there was a great moving of chairs, and the bustle of 
departure began. With all this noise there was enough 
applause to cover the retreat of Mr. Kirby. As the 
brougham was whirled away from a side door, he said 
with a thoughtful manner. “ I think I ’ll make my sub- 
scription to that damned pump as much as £50.” It 
was thus that he spoke of the new Gothic fountain, 
which was to be erected in the market-place of Red- 
gate. As they drove through Glaring Park, he asked 
with some warmth, Why does n’t Sophie Hartland 
send that boy to school ? ” 

“ It is about time,” said Hervie Langdon, who felt 
himself richer by a memory which he could laugh at 
when he was alone. 


CHAPTER III. 


Sophie Hartland knew well that her boy must go 
to school. It would have been strange if she had not 
grasped the idea, since she thought of Dick far more 
than of any other person or thing in all the world. F rom 
that awful day when after a single year of married life 
she was left a widow and a mother, herself almost a 
child, her son had been the most important of the race 
of men. He had been a source of strength too. When 
she knew that her husband, on whom she had already 
learned to lean with absolute trust, had been crushed 
under his horse and was dead, she turned to her baby 
with an instinct of self-preservation. But for her baby 
she thought that she should not be strong enough to 
live. A helplessness greater than her own appealed to 
her. She prayed for her baby before she prayed for 
herself. She prayed that he might be like his father. 

When the young mother could think more calmly of 
her husband, her thoughts passed always naturally from 
him to his child. The sense of responsibility absorbed 
her more and more. She felt as if she had charge of a 
sacred creature, who was by nature noble, and in whom 
any weakness would be justly laid to her charge. And 
this sense of responsibility made her stronger day by 
day. Her life was full of little tasks ; she would do 
everything for her boy. And so daily her confidence in 
herself increased. She found that she could do what she 
set herself to do. She began to value herself meekly 


dick’s wandering. 


17 


on the power of doing unpleasant things for Dick’s sake ; 
and so, one after another, most of them ceased to be 
unpleasant. She found a quiet pleasure in planning, in 
arranging, in managing. She was proud of the extreme 
neatness of the fine old house, which belonged to her 
baby boy. She liked to be consulted by the agent, who 
felt for her a chivalrous devotion, and would scarcely 
mend a gate without her sanction. She troubled herself 
with the reckoning of many figures, that she might fore- 
see the future value of Dick’s propert3\ She studied 
political economy with the help of her brother-in-law, 
Hervie Langdon, who derived no little amusement from 
her strange ambition ; and she learned to speak with 
intelligence of freehold and copyhold, of the natural law 
of rent, of the necessary limit of wages. For the land 
laws of her country she acquired an immense respect, 
partly due no doubt to the difficulty which she found in 
understanding them, but partly also to that respect for 
all law and distrust of change which lie deep in all but 
the few revolutionary women. 

Out of doors Mrs. Hartland rode about the property, 
and saw things for herself. She paid friendly visits to 
the farmers with the grace and kindliness of a young 
queen. She went more often into the laborers’ cottages, 
and would carry small gifts to their wives and children. 
She was at home in the village, which nestled at the park 
gates ; and indeed she was seen so often there that peo- 
ple would have forgotten to look at her, had she not been 
so pleasant to the eye. For in spite of her Quaker-like 
simplicity of dress, few women were prettier than 
Sophie Hartland. The girlish pouting lips had been 
schooled to an innocent precision ; the cheek was a little 
thinner and paler than it was on her marriage morning ; 


18 


DfCK S WANDERING. 


not the lightest curl of the bright brown hair was al- 
lowed to stray about the temples. And yet the face of 
this wise little mother, who so often tried to remember 
what was dignified and becoming in the widow of Ralph 
Hartland, and who could discuss compensation for unex- 
hausted improvements and shake her head over trades- 
unions, was still almost a child’s face, when her son was 
twelve years old. 

Nevertheless it may be said that Sophie Hartland was 
now so far from her former self that she had clean forgot- 
ten what a helpless being Sophie Meryon was. The girl 
Sophie had been praised for her yielding disposition. 
She had had no voice in the choice of her gowns ; she 
had had but little, as it seemed, in the choice of her hus- 
band. That husband she had nevertheless endowed with 
every virtue ; and, if he were not the Bayard that his 
wife saw, he was at least a very fine young fellow, hon- 
est, brave, and of such determination withal that his 
friends said that it was well be had married so gentle 
and submissive a girl. Now Sophie Hartland, when she 
was three-and-thirty, was by no means submissive. She 
consulted all sorts of people about her boy, his property, 
and his education, because it was her duty to have the 
best advice. But she let nobody decide for her. She 
was jealous of any interference between her and Dick. 
She watched this precious lad with a jealous eye. She 
loved him so much that in rare moments of weakness 
she feared that her love would be punished by th^ loss 
of him. She regarded him at one moment with relig- 
ious awe, at the next with the eye of parental authority. 
He was awful as the representative of all the Hartlands, 
the man who was to fill that large place in the county — 
more awful still as the son of her own saint and hero 


dick's wandering. 


19 


On the other hand, he was her property, her best pos- 
session ; he was something so precious that it was her 
duty to keep him safe by exacting perfect obedience. 
Dick on his side was the most amiable of little boys ; 
and he never disobeyed his mother, unless, as little boys 
will, he forgot her orders. He thought his mother the 
best and most beautiful woman in the world. He liked 
to see her smile ; and he found that she smiled most 
sweetly when he did what she told him to do. As she 
was always devising pleasant things for hina to do, she 
had little cause to coihplain of a want of prompt obedi- 
ence. He was not without friends. Under certain con- 
ditions he was allowed tp play With the little boys in the 
village ; for the village was a model) as Mrs. Hartland’s 
village was bound to be. His cousins Osbert and Betty 
Langdon were often with him. Though he could play 
all day and never tire, he early accepted his lessons as 
an evil necessary for him. He knew that he must learn ; 
for one of his first discoveries was that he would be a 
person of great importance. Big men touched their 
hats to him ; the mothers of his playfellows called him 
Sir,” and dusted the wooden chair before he sat on it ; 
farmers and laborers alike were pleased to call him 
Th-e little Squire.” Even in church he found that he 
and his slight young mother sat in a pew twice as big as 
any other pew. For him, therefore, learning was neces- 
sary. He must know a great many things, when he was 
a man. When he was twelve, he thought that he was 
almost a man, and that he knew a great many things 
Master Hartland was eager to confront the world. He 
wanted to go to school, in spite of his happy life at home, 
in spite of his love for his mother. Perhaps he was be- 
ginning, though he did not know it, to rebel against pet- 


20 


dick’s wandering. 


ticoat goverDment. That which he did know was that 
he wanted a lot more fellows to play with. He thought 
that he should like to have several hundred friends, who 
should all be nearly as great friends as Ossie. Alore- 
over, the unknown was irresistibly attractive. He 
needed new things to examine — new worlds to con- 
quer. He was a small creature of excessive energy. 
And so the idea of a great school, all full of boys, filled 
him with delight. Of course he would be sorry to leave 
his mother; but it would be fun to write her letters. 
He could send messages to his pony Daisy ; but then 
she would not understand them ; that thought made it 
hard for a moment to say good-by to Daisy. 

It is likely that the purchase of that precious pony 
was the most heroic action of Sophie Hartland’s life. 
The acquisition of that innocent little animal was not 
completed without agonies of fear, without sleepless and 
prayerful nights. Of course her boy must learn to ride. 
She never hesitated, though she feared. The Hartlands 
had always been a riding family. Her husband had 
been the finest horseman in the county, or, as she never 
doubted, in England. Yet it was his pride of horseman- 
ship with his indomitable will which had caused his death. 
He had made up his mind to subdue a horse which no- 
body could ride ; and the brute and he had died together 
deep down in a gravel pit on the hillside. And so be- 
tween this young widow and the happy child, wdio sat 
on his new pony in the sunshine, was the vision of a 
white young face with matted hair. Scarcely less pale 
was she, and her knees trembled under her; but she 
smiled on her boy and praised his courage, and bade him 
be careful, as any mother might have done. 

As Sophie Hartland had forced herself to buy a pon;^ 


dick’s wandering. 


21 


for Dick, so, when the proper time came, she was ready 
to force herself to send him to school. She felt as if he 
would take with him a part of her life ; as if the beautiful 
old park would be a waste in her eyes, and the home life 
a dull mechanical routine. But of course she must not 
keep him with her ; for his father had had the English- 
man’s sturdy faith in the training of a public school. And 
so the study of the public schools of England had been 
begun by Mrs. Hartland very soon after the short-coating 
of her infant. From that time forth she had lost no op- 
portunity of talking with fathers, mothers, pastors, and 
masters. She had consulted all sorts of authorities ; she 
had made many notes of measles, and of successes at the 
Universities ; in a matter of such importance she felt it a 
duty to spare herself no trouble. And yet throughout 
all the period of earnest inquiry and comparison she 
knew that she should send Dick to Eton. His father 
had been at Eton ; and a school which had done some- 
thing to form Ralph Hartland was, according to his wid- 
ow’s simple faith, good enough for anybody. It was al- 
most sacrilege to think otherwise. But she would not 
send her boy to his father’s tutor ; for she remembered 
with indignation some idle jest of that venerable man 
about his former pupil’s want of scholarship. To Eton, 
however, Dick must go ; and this decision his mother at 
last announced with due solemnity to Hervie Langdon, 
who had enjoyed the lion’s share of consultation. Mrs. 
Hartland regarded it as a very great event for the an- 
cient College that Dick should become an Eton boy; 
nor was Dick’s view of the matter widely different from 
his mother’s. 


CHAPTER IV. 


Dick went to Eton with a good store of cheei ful- 
ness, the best intentions, and an opinion of himself which 
was at least sufficiently high ; arid in the long run this 
valuable equipment. ^serVed bimiyell. At 'first he was 
doomed, of course, to^ some’ e:^perience of the rubs of life, 
and was a little bewildered' when he found himself of 
no more importance than any other new boy* But here 
his pleasant temper came to his assistance ; and, though 
he thought it* ver^ rride of young people to ask him direct 
questions about himself and! his private affairs, he saw 
at once that such questions were part of the venerable 
customs of the place, and he bowed to them as such. 
Perhaps, however, there was too evident an air of self- 
respect aSout the little boy ; for it is certain that he had 
not been many days in the place before he found him- 
self involved in a brisk skirmish with a dingy and tor- 
menting member of his tutor’s house, whose name was 
Dolamore. Dolamore had not expected a fray ; he had 
only sought a little cheap honor in the eyes of the by- 
standers for the ingenuity of his petty annoyance ; and 
when the new boy, after a period of perfect amiability,' 
suddenly went at him with his head down, he was glad 
of the arrival of the master, which put an end to the 
conflict. Lack of science had prevented much injury ; 
and Dick had a chance of learning that threats and boast- 
ing are not generally the prelude of vigorous action, 
for though messages and even dirty and twisted notes 


dick’$ wandering. 


23 


redolent of fire and fury came thick to him during the 
school-hour, yet when at the end of that time he walked 
somewhat slowly out into the sunshine, he found with a 
thrill of pleasure that the enemy was nowhere to be seen. 
Dick, though he was hot about the ears and saddened 
by the discovery that anybody could wish to be unkind 
to him, had made up his mind to bear himself bravely ; 
but non 3 the less was he glad that, when next they met, 
the untidy adversary seemed to have forgotten their 
quarrel and was 'deaf to the hints of neutral onlookers. 

But if Dick’ was a person of very small importance 
at the outset of his Eton career, it was not long before 
he began to make his presence felt. lie was still a neat 
little boy with a white collar and a black jacket, when 
other little boys similarly attired gathered around him ; 
and when he was sixteen years old, he exercised much 
influence in his tutor’s house, and was himself becoming 
aware of his responsibility. Well-built, active, and with 
abundant energy, he was prominent in games ; and he 
conciliated rivals by his unvarying friendliness and his 
pleasant smile. Boys, even more than other people, 
judge each other by the eye ; they read characters as 
they run ; and Dick with his brightness, his activity, 
and his honest looks, was a pleasanter object than many 
handsomer people. If, as he became known in the 
school, some fellows, who were not among his acquaint- 
ance, professed to hate him for his swagger, the easy 
hatred of boys is for the most part like the mist of the 
morning. Scarcely anybody who knew Dick disliked 
him ; and he was a favorite with the masters as with 
his fellows. He never stayed out ; he did his school- 
work respectably ; and he did it all himself except a few 
Latin verses, lie had no talent for poetry. Perhaps 
2 


24 


dick’s wandering. 


the discovery of his growing iiiflaence with liis peers, 
and the consequently increasing sense of responsibility, 
would have made Dick a prig for the time being, had he 
not been so full of engrossing occupations that he had 
but little time for thinking about himself. 

If Dick felt to some extent responsible for the views 
and actions of his fellows, he felt far more strongly that 
it was his duty to take care of his cousin Osbert Lang- 
don. He had taken care of Ossie ever since, with the 
dignity of a full year’s longer experience of life, he had 
assisted his tottering steps across the nursery-floor. 
They were still little boys at Eton, when Dick rebuked 
his cousin one day for throwing his old fives-balls at lit- 
tle cads, who struggled for them in the dust. “ But they 
like it,” said Ossie. ‘‘ But they ought not to like it,” 
said Dick ; “ and you ought not to like to do it. It ’s 
beastly bad form.” Thus early did young Mr. Hartland 
show some vague consciousness of the dignity of man, 
and of the importance of the mutual respect of classes. 
As they grew up in the school Dick gave more and more 
thought to Ossie, and found him more and more puz- 
zling. Other boys, though he had not the advantage of 
knowing them at home, he was sure that he knew all 
about without any trouble ; but he never could be cer- 
tain what Ossie would do next. This character, which 
it was his duty to look after, seemed ever changing its 
form. When Dick was old enough to make theories, 
and to regard them with satisfaction, he decided that his 
cousin took the shape of the last fellow from whom he 
bad parted. Nevertheless, though it seemed as if there 
were many Ossies, there yet remained one Ossie, whom 
Dick loved, and on whom he kept a watchful eye. 

The two boys, now grown to a position of some dig* 


dick’s wandering. 


25 


iiitj, were at breakfast one summer morning. The fags 
had gone, and had left their portion of toast behind 
them. 

The window was wide open ; the early light slanted 
and trembled in the flowers, which made gay the plain 
face of the opposite house ; a soft air stole pleasantly 
into the room. The drowsiness of this air had a very 
soothing effect on Langdon. As he put out an idle 
hand to the jam-pot, it seemed strange to him that any 
sane creature should submit to the trouble of training ; 
he could not help asking his cousin if he really intended 
to start in the school sculling. 

Yes,” said Dick, with one eye on a small manual of 
political economy. 

It ’s pretty fair cheek,” said Ossie. 

Dick laughed. “ It ’s too good a chance to be lost,” 
he said. “ Marlow has lent me his boat ; and she ’s the 
best on the river. She ’s too small for any of the other 
starters ; it ’s just my luck.” 

‘‘ But what ’s the good of giving up all sorts of jolly 
things, and grinding every night round rushes, when you 
can’t possibly win ? ” 

‘‘ It ’s a good thing to do. One must do something. 
Besides, why should n’t I win ? ” 

‘‘ Well, you have nerve ! Do you think you can beat 
Brown ? ” Now Brown was Captain of the Boats that 
year, and it will be readily understood that this question 
was not to be lightly answered. Dick smiled at his own 
boldness in not saying “ No ” on the instant. “ lie 
buries his boat,” he said ; ‘‘ and he ’s not taking any care 
about his steering.” 

If he does n’t win, it ’s a moral for Cavendish.” 

“ He ’s stale,” said Dick, with a knowing nod ; “ he 


26 dick’s wandering. 

has done too much. I think I can beat him in Mar 
low’s boat.” 

“ I do like your cheek,” said Ossie. 

“ I ’m glad you like it,” said Dick ; “ there ’s only a 
quarter of an hour before construing.” 

Oh, I ’m sure not to be put on to-day.” 

“ I ’ll give you a construe,” said his cousin with de- 
cision ; and he put away the manual, which interested 
him a good deal more than the classical authors. 

“ I don’t mind if you ’ll let me look over you. I 
can’t go all the way to my room for my book.” 

Hartland took his cousin by the back of the neck and 
shook him playfully. I wish you would n’t be so 
lazy,” he said. ‘‘ You look beastly seedy and good-for- 
nothing. I wish you would n’t loaf so much, and go 
with Dolamore.” Then, as a new thought struck him, 
he asked more anxiously, ‘‘You haven’t been going 
any more to that brute Isaacs’, have you ? ” 

Langdon raised his eyebrows pathetically, smiled, and 
whistled. 

“ Oh, Ossie, don’t be such a fool,” said Dick ; “ fancy 
running the risk of being sacked for going to a filthy 
gin-and-billiard hole like that ! The next fellow who ’s 
nailed will go.” 

“ Don’t you be afraid,” remarked Mr. Langdon, with 
the air of a lazy sportsman ; “ they don’t catch me. 
There ’s only five minutes before construing.” So Dick 
rushed straightway into the business on hand, and his 
cousin listened with an air of dignified protest to a trans- 
lation of some lines of Horace. Later in the day, re- 
membering that he had not been called up in school, 
he rebuked Dick pathetically for having given him sc 
much unnecessary trouble. 


dick’s wandering. 


27 


Having made up his mind to start in the sculling, 
riartland gave all his spare energy to the task before 
him. It was a point of honor with him to do as well as 
he possibly could. He was in the boat, which had been 
lent to him, as often as possible. He soon felt himself 
at home in her, and had learned to steer her over the 
difficult course with the utmost nicety. He was so busy 
with the important business of getting himself into the 
best possible condition that for a time he saw compar- 
atively little of his cousin. If uneasy thoughts of Mr. 
Cleveland Isaacs occasionally visited him, they were in- 
stantly thrust out by more solemn considerations of speed 
or endurance. 

This Mr. Cleveland Isaacs was a source of uneasiness 
in the school. He had but lately appeared in the town ; 
and the elegance of his premises and of his manners 
aroused a suspicion that he aimed at other than town 
patronage. He was accused of inciting not only to 
drink, but to secret cards and dice. He had been but a 
short time in his new abode, when he was in such bad 
odor that the head-master felt justified in launching a 
special thunderbolt against him. So there passed round 
the school a very short notice, which inspired awe in 
little hearts by threatening instant expulsion to any one 
who should hereafter have any dealings with this fasci- 
nating stranger. 

Dick had looked once, and once only, on the fascinat- 
ing stranger, and had pronounced him incontinently to 
be a repulsive cad. He would have given him no second 
thought, had he not an uneasy fear of any tenaptation 
to mischief which might beguile his incomprehensible 
cousin. Once, when he was hurrying to the Brocas, he 
saw Langdon in affectionate conversation with Dola- 


28 


dick’s wandering. 


more, and he made up his mind to warn him again 
against this dangerous friend. But when he met him at 
lock-up, his mind was so full of Brown’s time round 
rushes, of what Brown had said of Cavendish’s want of 
life, of Sambo’s regret that Brown would change his 
boat so short a time before the race, that he clean for- 
got to find fault with Ossie. Once or twice he felt 
called upon to rebuke him for not eating, and for being 
slack and feverish ; but Ossie only complained of tho 
heat ; and indeed it was an unusually hot summer. 


CHAPTER V. 


It was the night of the final heat of the school scull- 
ing, and Hartland, to the surprise of almost everybody, 
was one of the four competitors. He had come in 
second to Cavendish in his trial heat, and he had come 
in, as his shrewd friend on the bank had not failed to 
observe, as fresh as paint.” And now, when the final 
heat was to be rowed, the bank of the Thames from the 
Rafts to Brocas Clump was crowded with boys. The 
evening light slanted through them, brightening the gay 
colors of boating coats and caps, brightening faces al- 
ready bright with youth and laughter and the joy of the 
battle. Dick’s heart was beating, as he stepped into his 
boat ; it was no small thing to be one of four young 
heroes, who were to contend in presence of that crowd, 
so eager and so quick of sympathy. The sunlight 
touched his bright young head, as he sculled slowly and 
in his best form to the starting-place. The evening was 
still, the water oily calm ; a moment of wonderful silence 
followed the words “ Get ready ! ” which words were 
uttered, as the grandiloquent young writer in the Eton 
Chronicle ” did not fail to record, “ by the stentorian 
voice of the second Captain of the Boats.” Then in 
the stillness sounded the one word “Off! ” and there- 
upon arose a clamor, a high-pitched shouting of youth, 
and straightway began a rush of boys along the bank, 
as the four boats leapt away together in the stream. 

Brown, who had the best position under the Eton 


80 


dick’s WA^^DERING. 


shore, was soon leading, and before he readied tlie Rail- 
way Bridge h^ was steering across the other competitors 
to Bargeman’s hush. In this bush, however, the stalwart 
young Captain of the Boats, who was attending too 
much to the fellows behind him, caught his right scull 
for a moment. He was instantly free again ; but not 
before the pale and persevering Cavendish had come 
up to him on the outside. Once at close quarters Cav- 
endish was hard to shake off ; if his sculling lacked life, 
his stroke never got shorter, and his pluck had been 
praised in many “ Chronicles.” Deep-chested, round of 
body and muscular of forearm. Brown looked as if he 
must go right away from his antagonist ; but though he 
spurted opposite Hester’s Shed, he could not draw his 
boat clear of the other. He made too wide a curve at 
Sandband, and Cavendish was almost level with him 
after the turn. And now the impetuous spirit of the 
Captain of the Boats was vexed within him ; he must 
be rid of this pertinacious fellow ; he was not afraid of 
exhausting the strength, which was so much admired in 
the school ; he would show them what he could do. He 
quickened his stroke, but in quickening he begun to 
hurry forward ; he gained a little, but his boat began 
to jump and dip beneath him. Full of the determina- 
tion to shake off Cavendish he paid no heed to his 
course; at Upper Hope he went right out into the 
stream, and Cavendish, who had no thought but to stick 
to his leader, went with him. Now was the moment for 
Dick’s judicious friend and amateur trainer. His ap- 
proving eye observed that his man was, as he said to 
himself, “still in it.” He lifted his voice and piped 
loud and clear across the river. Dick, who had been 
sculling cleanly and carefully, and had gained some 


DICK S WANDERING. 


31 


*engths by his steering, now allowed himself a single 
glance over his left shoulder. With a quick throb of 
excitement he saw Brown and Cavendish close together 
and right out in the bay. Steering close round the long 
corner, restraining a wild inclination to spurt, he waited 
till his boat was straight, and then for the first time he 
quickened a little. Then the boys at Athens, staring 
with all their eyes, saw to their amazement that Hart- 
land was indeed in it. They saw that it was a great 
race ; they danced in their excitement about the rails ; 
those who had breath yelled for their favorites ; many 
were hoarse the next morning. And now Brown was 
aware that there was another with whom he must reck- 
on. He came bounding across the river to his prop- 
er course ; he was strong as a young bull and his boat 
leapt under him ; to the ignorant eye it seemed as if he 
must go right away from the slight young boy, who was 
fully two years younger. But he was hurrying with 
his body and cutting his stroke; as he slanted across 
the stream his boat became unsteady ; his thoughts 
went back with a sigh to the old craft which he had 
discarded. 

It was a splendid race. As they neared Rushes, 
Brown and Hartland were almost level, and Cavendish 
little more than a length behind. Dick was afraid of 
being fouled in the narrow channel ; he spurted and 
gained half a length ; he slipped smoothly by the old 
bed of reeds ; in a few seconds he was at the ryepeck, 
and half the course was done. He gained at least a 
length by his good turn ; and now he was sailing away 
down stream, with his eyes fixed on the landmarks by 
whose aid he steered, and with a very strong determina- 
tion that nobody should pass him ; he realized that he 


32 


dick’s wandering. 


had the lead, and he would keep it. Brown was barely 
clear of Cavendish, when he had turned the ryepeck; 
his work was beginning to tell on him ; as the young 
Johnson of the “Chronicle” put it, “his efforts had 
been too great for the arms of any man to endure.” 
Indeed, those swollen forearms hurt him not a little ; 
again and again he spurted with but small effect on the 
speed of his boat. With set teeth and long strokes 
Cavendish stuck to him; at Hester’s Shed the great 
Captain, after a final plunge, accepted his fate ; his de- 
termined antagonist drew himself clear, and sculling 
steadily down passed under Windsor Bridge, second to 
young Hartland. “ Never,” wrote the Chronicler, whose 
magniloquent young pen has recorded this contest, 
“ never has the aquatic world been astounded by a result 
so contrary to what most fellows expected. We have 
witnessed another start, another race, and another finish ; 
the Blue Riband of the Eton Thames has again been 
lost and won, and the winner has turned out to be Hart- 
land, whom we warmly congratulate on his success.” 

After the race, as Dick sculled up from below the 
bridge, alone in triumph, he could scarcely believe in his 
own victory. He seemed to be lifted out of himself, to 
be moving in some glorious dream, fearful of waking. 
The simple lad had never felt anything like this ecstasy. 
He steadied himself with an effort, and thought about 
the form of his sculling. The water under him was 
yellow with the last sunlight, and the blades of his 
sculls were golden as he feathered them ; the rafts 
crowded with boys in gay flannels lay low to the water, 
like Chinese river-gardens of bright flowers ; there was 
an immense clamor as the winner came from the shadow 
of the bridge. As he stepped from his boat and made 


dick’s wandering. 


33 


bis way through the crowd, they thronged about him to 
pat him on the shoulder, to touch the hero of the hour. 
It was intoxicating; it was lucky that the boy had a 
steady head on his shoulders. He was thanking every- 
body, and struggling to the changing-room ; he wanted 
to be alone — to recover himself. 

When he was dressed, the winner slipped away from 
his friends, and started for his tutor’s. As he went, his 
feet moved quicker and quicker. He wanted to talk it 
all over with Ossie, to enjoy his ready sympathy, to 
laugh at his wonder. He laughed aloud, as he hurried 
on, at the thought that it was really he who had won 
this great race. Suddenly the laughter was struck silent 
on his lips. Out of a dark passage came somebody, 
stumbling against him. It was the passage into which 
opened the attractive premises of JNIr. Cleveland Isaacs. 
Dick turned cold in an instant. The boy who had fallen 
against him out of the darkness was his cousin Ossie ; 
and it was clear that Ossie was drunk. 

LIBRARY 
OF TH E 

SUP.'. COUNCIL, 

SO.‘.JURiSDiCTiON. 


CHAPTER VI. 


The sweet air came over the valley, and filled the 
long low drawing- rooms of Glaring, which had opened 
all its windows to the south. It was the drowsy time 
between harvests. The hay was stacked and the wheat 
was growing yellow. The valley, which stretched away 
from below the southern face of the old house into the 
dim distance, seemed twice as full of' trees, for every 
tree was growing round and full with darkening foliage ; 
the broad acres of the park were silent and sleepy ; it 
was the fulness of summer. To Mrs. Ilartland, as clad 
in her cool white gown she moved through the long 
rooms, the great contentment of the morning was but 
another cause of irritation. She touched and retouched 
the fresh flowers, because she had a theory about the 
beneficial effect of occupation on the distressed mind. 
Her distress was caused by perplexity ; and, as she had 
grown accustomed to the belief that she always knew 
what to do, she was irritated by doubt. She found her- 
self at a loss, and she did not like it. The subject of 
her doubts was her son, and she liked that still less. 
She was not sure, though she had not acknowledged 
this even to herself, that the decision remained wholly 
with her ; and this final doubt was unendurable. Dick 
had come home witli all his honors ; and had been re- 
ceived as a young hero should be, who had won the 
sculling when he was but just seventeen, got into Pop, 
and brought an excellent character from his tutor. It 


DICK'S WANDERING. 


35 


IS true that the mother’s joy had been a little damped 
by the fact that her brother-in-law, Hervie Langdon, had 
been advised to take his boy away from Eton ; but, 
though she was very fond of her nephew, the misfortune 
of another person’s son cannot be wholly bitter to a 
mother. The mood in which she sincerely condoled with 
Mr. Langdon was not far removed from that in which 
she clasped Dick in her arms, and breathlessly thanked 
Heaven that he had never done anything to grieve her. 
On dear Ossie’s case she could be very sensible ; she 
made light of his childish folly ; she pointed out to his 
father how much worse it would have been if he had 
been expelled. If Ossie’s fate had befallen her own 
child, the light would have gone out of the world for 
her. But Dick was a hero, a favorite with masters as 
with boys ; no other woman could hope for such a son. 
And now, when she was telling herself this truth so full 
of comfort, when she was hugging to her heart this chief 
possession, Dick had quietly told her that he wished to 
leave Eton at Christmas. Moreover, he had not yielded 
at once, when she showed him the absurdity of such a 
course. Was it possible that there was a flaw in his 
character ? Could it be that he was self-willed ? 

Mrs. Ilartland found no pleasure in the placid beauty 
of the morning. She was out of temper ; and as she 
had acquired a habit of pitying and despising women 
who lost their temper, the consciousness of her present 
state was intensely irritating. She was cross with her- 
self for being cross. She knew that she had spoken 
sharply to her mother, who considered herself a sooth- 
ing presence. Mrs. Meryon was staying with her 
daughter, and had tried to comfort her for Dick’s folly 
by pointing out the misfortunes of their common friends 


36 


dick’s wandering. 


Ever since the death of her young son-in-law, Mrs. 
IVIeryon had been given to sighing over her daughter 
Sophie, at first on account of her helplessness, and then 
more and more, as she found to her great surprise that 
she herself was not to have sole charge of the baby, on 
account of her strange indifference to maternal advice. 
She was perhaps too fond of expressing a hope, which 
was certainly real, that Dick would turn out well. For 
so sympathetic a woman Mrs. Meryon was wonderfully 
well preserved. The round smooth face showed few 
lines, and the smooth hair under the cap scarcely a trace 
of gray. Her air of gentle melancholy made many 
more cheerful women feel vulgar. She seemed to con- 
sent to live — to eat and drink with a soft silent protest. 
She had known sorrow. She was a widow ; and of her 
two children, Marion, Ilervie Langdon’s wife, had died 
young, and Sophie would not appeal to her for comfort 
in the trials of life. The comfort derived from min<rlin£: 
tears was that nearest to the heart of Mrs. Meryon. 
She had learned to expect little. When the weather 
was fine, she was not deceived by its treachery ; when 
the weather was dull, that was more fitting. She kept 
a store of other people’s sorrows, as a squirrel keeps 
nuts ; she loved to crack them at strange moments. On 
festive occasions she sighed most : for then she could 
not help thinking of that poor dear somebody whom she 
remembered in such spirits, or of that poor dear other 
one who would be so happy if he could be there ; so 
would she tone down the mirth till the atmosphere was 
such as she loved to breathe. In times of sorrow this 
lady was lil^e a gentle shower falling softly if superfiu- 
ously in a season of heavy rains. Her life was a peace- 
ful stream, and in its sliding gray she viewed herself 
with no little satisfaction. 


dick’s wandering. 


37 


To this maternal being, who was ready to sit down 
and cry with her, Sophie Hartland had been cross. Sho 
did not wish to sit down and cry ; she only wished her 
own son to do that which she knew to be for his good. 
Surely, as she told herself, that was not unreasonable ; 
though she was a woman, she knew what was reasonable. 
Feeling that she must do something, she had sent for 
Ilervie Langdon ; and he had arrived in due course, and 
had brought his boy and girl with him. Now, when her 
friend and brother-in-law was here, she shrank from con- 
sulting him. She had been so proud of her manage- 
ment of her boy ; and it seemed to her that she was 
about to make a confession of failure. As she was 
moving restlessly from jar to jar, Mr. Langdon came in 
through one of the open windows. He seemed to con- 
centrate in himself the measureless content of the outer 
world. He tossed his half-smoked cigarette out on to 
the gravel walk, and smiled upon his sister-in-law. 
“ Please don’t do that, Hervie,” she said ; it looks so 
untidy ; it ’s such a bad example for the gardeners.” 
Still smiling, he stepped out again into the sunlight, 
picked up the fragment of cigarette, and awaited fur- 
ther orders. Oh, put it anywhere,” she said impa- 
tiently ; what can it matter ? ” Then, as she caught 
his eye, she laughed, and was angry with herself there- 
for. No, I am not laughing,” she said ; I don’t see 
how anybody can laugh in such a stupid world.” 

It is a highly comical world,” said Her vie Langdon, 
as he carefully buried the offending tobacco in a big 
flower-pot by the window. Then he came in, and, as 
he felt sure that she wanted to talk to him, he showed 
no consciousness of the fact; he chose a chair, and 
picked up the Times.” I think mamma has the most 


88 


dick’s wandering. 


depressing correspondence in tlie world,” said Sophie, 
still obstinately busy with her flowers ; ‘‘ her friends are 
always in misfortune. Poor Mrs. Trippet has twins 
again ; Emily Eustace’s engagement is broken off ; I 
don’t know why she reads me all these wretched things.” 

‘‘Your mother thinks we are all awfully hard- 
hearted,” said Ilervie round his paper; ‘‘she gives us 
doses of other people’s misfortunes to stimulate our sym- 
pathy. It is very good of her, if you look at it like 
that.” 

“ I think she might have spared me this morning. I 
have enough to trouble me.” 

Mr. Langdon said nothing, but he threw down his 
paper as if he had failed to find any news. After a 
minute she said abruptly, “ Dick wishes to leave Eton 
at Christmas.” 

Hervie showed a proper measure of surprise and in- 
terest. “ Does he give any reasons ? ” he asked. 

“ There can be no reason whatever,” she said, answer- 
ing indirectly, as women sometimes will ; “ he is doing 
very well in every way. His tutor says th^t it would 
be the greatest pity in the world that he should leave 
now — 3 ust when he is beginning to exercise his proper 
influence ; that it would be a very bad thing for the 
House — and for the school ; and that it will probably 
be the ruin of — of Dick.” 

“ Not so bad as that, I hope.” 

“ Of course he does not say so in so many words ; of 
course he softens it for me, as if I were one of those 
weak, silly mothers. Perhaps I am a weak, silly mother. 
At any rate, it seems that my own child thinks so.” 

“ My dear Sophie, you are the best of mothers. I am 
sure Dick knows that you are the best of mothers. What 
does he want to do?” 


dick’s wandering. 


39 


Oh, don’t ask me. He is . full of some ridiculous 
ideas about studying political economy, and history, and 

— and nonsense. It is really too absurd in a boy of 
seventeen. He wants to prepare himself for public life 

— for looking after his property — for doing his duty to 
the land — I don’t know what he wants.” 

Mr. Langdon seemed to be thinking. “ He is n’t 
much of a scholar, I believe ? ” he said after a minute. 

‘‘ He says that he will never be any good at Latin 
and Greek, if you mean that; but I am sure I don’t 
know why he should n’t be ; his father did well enough.” 

Hervie Langdon had a lively recollection of some 
peculiarities of his friend Ralph Hartland’s scholarship ; 
but he thought it better to let that subject rest. lie said 
nothing, and Mrs. Hartland presently began again in a 
more quiet tone. 

I can’t think what has made Dick so conceited,” she 
said. He was such a gentle, modest boy before he went 
to school. It must be all the fault of that horrid Eton.” 

Mr. Langdon remarked to himself that, if Eton was 
horrid, she should be glad that her son would leave it ; 
but he thought it wiser not to say this aloud. 

They must have flattered Dick,” Sophie Hartland 
said, into thinking himself something out of the com- 
mon.” 

“ I am not sure that he is n’t something out of the 
common,” said Mr. Langdon. 

“ No, Hervie,” his sister-in-law answered with firm- 
ness, and an air of impartiality which she felt to be 
worthy of a man — No, Hervie,” she said, I am not 
silly about my boy. I know that Ralph’s son cannot be 
a fool ; but I don’t mistake my geese for swans. Dick 
IS like other boys — no better and no worse.” 


40 


dick’s wandering. 


‘‘ No better than my poor Ossie, for instance ? ” 

She did not answer his question precisely. 

“ Poor Ossie ! ” she said ; “lam so sorry for Ossie. 
I am sure nobody can be better and nicer than he is here 
with us. Pie is such a dear, affectionate boy, and so fond 
of flowers ; he has such nice tastes. It must have been 
the fault of those horrid friends ; Dick ought to have 
kept him away from them.’’ 

“ No, no,” said Ilervie ; “ you must n’t blame Dick. 
Ossie says that there is nobody like Dick ; and that 
everybody in the school says so.” lie looked at her 
keenly, as he said this ; he fancied that the tone of her 
next speech was a little milder. 

“ Then why does he want to leave ? ” she asked. 

Mr. Langdon thought that the question had better be 
left without further answer. He continued to praise his 
nephew; and Sophie Ilartland objected, and by objec- 
tion encouraged him to fresh praises ; and by this pro- 
cess the mother’s heart was slowly but surely comforted. 
She even sat down, and took up her work. “ I wish 
you would take my precious pair off my hands,” said 
Mr. Langdon, perceiving that it was a good time for an 
effective contrast. “ Ossie entertains me with imita- 
tions of his friend Mr. Cleveland Isaacs ; they are really 
extremely clever ; he would do very well on the stage 
— and so would Betty.” 

“ Oh, Ilervie, how can you talk like that ? ” 

“ They have taken to religion lately. They are the 
most comical young creatures in the world. They took 
me to church last Sunday.” 

“ I am very glad to hear it, Ilervie,” said Mrs. Hart- 
land gravely. 

“ Ossie is going to sing in the choir, and Betty has 


dick’s wandering. 


41 


confided to me” — here Mr. Langdon was rendered 
speechless by one of his sudden attacks of laughter ; as 
soon as he could speak, and still wiping the tears from 
his eyes, he finished his sentence — that she is in love 
with the organist.” 

Oh, Hervie ! ” cried his sister-in-law. 

She has always fancied herself in love with some- 
body, since she could see.” 

Really, Hervie, you ought not to talk so of your 
daughter. You forget that she is almost a woman.” 

“ She can’t be more than fifteen,” he said, after a 
moment’s thought. “ She is certainly forward for her 
years. She has a female friend, a certain Susan Bond, 
who has just launched herself on the world ; and this 
young person tells her that, though men have given 
up religion themselves, they won’t marry women who 
liave n’t got it. Did you ever hear anything like that 
from a debutante ? You never saw such a letter as she 
wrote to my little girl.” 

‘‘ Did Betty show you the letter ? ” 

Yes. They show me everything. Thank Heaven ! 
we are the best of friends, my children and I. They 
amuse me more than anything in the world.” 

Mrs. Hartland was not amused. She felt that she 
ought to utter a protest. ‘‘ You know, Hervie,” she 
said, “ how much I have always disapproved your 
theories about the bringing up of children.” 

“ Look at the result,” said he, with an easy smile ; 
“ take the church, for instance. I never made them go 
to church ; and so they like it ; and now they make me 
go.’'* 

‘‘ If Betty goes to church, because a silly girl says 
that it ’s the way to get a husband, I am afraid that she 
jvill not get much good from it.” 


42 


dick’s wandering. 


Hervie began to smile in his beard, and she said a little 
more sharply, I never know whether you are in jest 
or in earnest ; but 1 think that your daughter’s future 
is worthy of a little seriousness.” 

He became grave on the instant. “ My dear Sophie,” 
he said, “ 1 feel quite sure of Betty. How can Marion’s 
daughter be anything but a good girl ? ” 

‘‘ Poor Marion ! ” said Sophie, and sighed. « I do 
hope,” she added, “ that Betty will be as good a woman 
as her mother.” 

“Never fear!” said he stoutly. “And let us hope 
that Dick will be as good a man as his father.” 

Mrs. Hartland shook her head. “ That he never will 
be,” she said with decision. “ I can’t understand Dick. 
Does he suppose that I would ask him to do anything 
which was not for his good ? ” 

“Perhaps he is beginning to think that he knows 
what ’s best for him.” Hervie Langdon said this ; but 
he said it under his beard, and nobody heard him. “ Ah, 
look at ’em,” he said aloud ; “ there they are. Look at 
the young creatures.” 

Beyond the terrace the smooth turf sloped gradually 
away to the wood, which stretched down into the valley. 
Out of the wood came Betty, flushed and fair, and drag- 
ging after her her brother, who hung back, laughing. 

“ Ain’t they beautiful ? ” asked their father. “ They 
might have come to life from an old Greek jar. It ’s a 
Bacchanal bit.” 

Sophie Hartland said nothing. She was staring at 
her own child, who came running out of the shadows in 
pursuit of his cousins. To her he seemed more beauti- 
ful than they, though he would have seemed so to very 
few others. He shouted, as he saw her framed in the 


dick’s wandering. 


43 


tall window ; he ran up the lawn with his honest blue 
eyes full of kindness ; though Sophie was not fanciful, 
she thought that her son was full of the morning. And 
yet, as he kissed her lightly on the cheek, she frowned a 
little, wondering if this affectionate, sweet-tempered boy 
could be really obstinate. 

‘‘ Dick,’’ said Hervie Langdon, smiling, ‘‘ it ’s a pity to 
give up being a boy before you are obliged to. JExperto 
crede I ” 

I mean to be a boy and a man too,” said Dick ; and 
he put his arm round his mother with a manner affec- 
tionate and protecting. 


CHAPTER VIL 


Dick left Eton at Christmas. Very soon after the 
subject was first discussed between the mother and son, 
Mrs. Ilartland made up her mind not to say another 
word about it ; and it was only under pressure of the 
strongest feeling that she ever departed from this resolu- 
tion. Sometimes she felt, as she said, that she must 
speak. She spoke strongly to her boy’s tutor, and that 
good man spoke strongly to his pupil. Dick was per- 
fectly amiable, and listened with interest ; but he was 
not convinced. Mr. Kirby himself took the trouble to 
visit Eton, that he might put the thing to rights. “ 1 ’ll 
just run down,” he said, “ and talk to the boy myself, 
and tell him not to make a confounded fool of himself.” 
Mr. Kirby went down and talked to the boy, who re- 
ceived him with the pleasantest smiles. In the course of 
his remarks the politician made himself by degrees very 
red in the face and very angry ; but he failed to persuade 
the boy. As he journeyed to London in the train, his 
superfluous warmth escaped in broken mutterings, as of 
a storm passing away ; and among them an attentive 
ear might have distinguished such words as “ spoiled,” 
“ prig?’’ “ conceited young ape,” joined all of them with 
strong epithets. lie was really sorry that his young 
kinsman should insist on beginning life with a mistake, 
lie v/as fond of the boy ; had always thought that he 
would do him credit ; had often pronounced him promis- 
ing ; had asserted warmly that he would push him for- 


dick’s wandering. 


45 


ward when the time came, as indeed he intended to push 
him. Blood, in Mr. Kirby’s opinion, was a good deal 
thicker than water. 

Dick was sorry to grieve his mother ; but he was 
sure that he was right. He felt no shadow of doubt; 
tlie matter seemed clear as the day. He told himself 
that for him, at least, further study of dead languages 
w^as of no use ; that he could fit himself better for his 
part in life elsewhere than at Eton ; that of course he 
ought to fit himself for that important part as well as 
he could. He admitted that he might have some influ- 
ence among his school-fellows ; but that must not be 
weighed against the wider influence which he meant to 
have some day. Besides, liis most useful occupation in 
the school was gone when Ossie was taken from him. 
If his cousin had been allowed to stay in the school, he 
would have stayed to look after him. But now, since 
Ossie had left, he felt sure that he ought to leave too. 
Moreover, Dick’s curiosity was growing with startling 
rapidity. He had a great desire to know the real world, 
as he already knew, or thought he knew, so well its pic- 
ture in little. He wanted to understand men and their 
needs ; to analyze those political and social difficulties, 
which must be due, he thought, to a strange stupidity. 
He was charged with excessive energy, and was tired of 
expending so much of it in the games of boys. There 
were so many new things to see and to know ; and as 
he wanted to see and know everything, it was certainly 
time to begin. Sometimes he felt himself already a 
man ; for the most part, however, he was lucky enough 
to be a boy. 

When tli^ hours of discussion were over, and the time 
for leaving iiad come, the boy’s courage almost failed 


16 


dick’s wandering. 


him. Then he felt, as he had never felt before, with 
what imperial gentleness Eton held sway over his heart. 
Of his own will he was going from so much friendship. 
In one of those moments of superstition, of which there 
wxre so few in his life, he felt fear lest he should be 
punished for neglecting this great gift ; he thought that 
perhaps some day he would need a friend. So many 
fellows seemed to be sorry that he was leaving ; it made 
him tender. As the train passed slowly over the river 
Thames, which was eloquent of his first and sweetest 
victory, he felt the tears in his eyes ; he was ashamed ; 
he said to himself that this would never do ; he must 
face the consequences of his own decisions. He opened 
the “ Times,” and disappeared in his corner behind that 
voluminous sheet. Though at that time he had by no 
means outgrown his respect for leading articles, yet it is 
to be feared that he remembered but few words of the 
printed wisdom, at which his eyes gazed dimly during 
the journey to London. 

Dick Ilartland, when he had escaped from the disci- 
pline of school, was confident enough that he needed no 
help in conducting his further education. Nevertheless, 
having carried his point in the chief matter, he was ready 
to yield with a good grace in that of less importance, 
lie was prepared to receive a tutor. He even pressed 
liis mother to find one for him, and so allowed her to 
forget for a time that he was passing from her control. 
She wrote many letters, and made minute inquiries. 
Meanwhile Dick troubled himself not at all about his 
future instructor, for he had made up his mind that he 
would learn only what he wished to learn, and not a jot 
of any other stuff which it might please the teacher to 
teach. A man who could answer all those questions 


dick's wandering. 


47 


wliich lie was eager to ask would be useful as a whole 
library of books. A man who failed to adapt himself 
to his pupil would soon resign a most embarrassing 
position. It was easy enough to manage that sort of 
thing, Dick said to himself, and laughed. So he read 
his own books and went his own way ; till by great for- 
tune he received a tutor, who adapted himself with a 
kind of fury to the demands of his pupil. Fabian Deane 
had but just taken his degree at Oxford, and was look- 
ing about with excited eyes for something to do. Sud- 
denly he heard of young Hartland as a promising youth 
in need of instruction ; and obedient, as he loved to be, 
to the impulse of the moment, he wrote to Ilervie Lang- 
don, who was an old friend of his father, and claimed 
the position of tutor. If the pupil was promising, the 
tutor was interesting. ‘‘ Interesting ” was the epithet 
most frequently applied to Mr. Fabian Deane. He was 
talked about more often than any young man in Oxford. 
He had flung himself impetuously into many sets, and 
had made himself at home, at least for a time, in all of 
them. He was always doing something, or going to do 
something ; and the something generally startled the 
onlookers. The unexpected delighted him ; he loved it 
for itself ; and moreover he liked to know that one man 
said to another, Have you heard what Deane did ? 
or ‘‘ Do you know what that lunatic Fabian is going to 
do ? ’’ He was naturally unlike other people, and, as 
soon as he was old enough to be conscious of this un- 
likeness, he hugged it to him with joy. He never made 
the slightest effort to modify or to hide it; indeed it 
may be suspected that he sometimes emphasized it a lit- 
tle. It is certain that some blunt people among his Ox- 
ford contemporaries accused him of affectation ; but this 
3 


48 


dick’s wandering. 


was a very crude estimate of a very iuteresting charac- 
ter. He was naturally unlike other young men ; and 
he liked to be unlike them. 

As at different times Fabian flung himself into differ- 
ent sets of men, so with like ardor did be embrace now 
one occupation, now another, and abandon in turn vari- 
ous lines of study. Of history, to which, the life of his 
eminent father was devoted, he was unreasonably impa- 
tient. But this was almost the only field of study in 
which he never urged his wild career. For two years 
he abandoned himself to philosophy : during that time 
he constructed the universe in three or four different 
ways, and dissolved it as often. When he had thouglit 
enough about thought, he one day thought about think- 
ing about thought : in that important moment he decided 
that the occupation was not for him : he, as it were, 
burnt his books, and looked out of window. For a time 
he examined man (and this was the subject supremely 
interesting to him in almost all his moods) with the 
purely scientific eye. He inspected man’s brain in bot- 
tles, and wondered if he could think with his back. But 
the pictures in the scientific books offended his eye, 
which was greedy of beauty ; the mystery of the me- 
dulla oblongata failed to soothe his sensitive nature. 
He turned with new zeal to art. Now he became more 
Hellenic than the ancient Greeks ; anon he was more 
medimval than the early Italian painters. He began to 
write a history of poetry. Suddenly it occurred to him 
m write poetry instead of its history ; but if he hated 
history, he hated his own verses more ; as they cooled, 
he was shocked by their deformity. He denounced all 
sorts of things ; he denounced all sorts of peoiffe ; he 
was powerful in denunciation — a master of elaborate 


dick’s wandering. 


49 


invective, and of fiery sarcasm, with which he loved at 
times to sear his own breast also. Yet in spite of the 
pitiful inadequacy of mankind and of himself, he enjoyed 
a great brightness of spirit, which was made only more 
brilliant by brief hour's of majestic gloom. Disappointed 
ill the studies which had by turn attracted him, he at last 
rushed to that which commended itself as most repulsive ; 
and after six months’ severe study of law he surprised 
more methodical people by appearing in the first class. 
Then he tried with very small success to wait patiently. 
He fumed and fretted among his photographs from the 
works of Bellini and Carpaccio ; he scowled at his two 
casts from the antique, which appeared inhumanly cold. 
He was in this mood of enforced calm, smoking idly like 
Vesuvius and full of fire within, when he first heard of the 
existence of young Hartland. All his life long from those 
days, which seemed so fair as he looked back, when the 
chosen playmate of his childhood and best beloved was 
a little fluffy dog, Fabian Deane had been eagerly seek 
ing a friend. In moments of explosion he had often de- 
clared that he had never found a friend. Perhaps he 
had always asked too much. He wished to be loved, im- 
proved, guided, by a perfect being. When he heard of 
young Ilartland’s condition, an entirely new idea struck 
him. He would abandon his wearisome search for a 
guide, philosopher, and friend. It needed but a mo- 
ment’s thought, and the object of his life was reversed ; 
the whole thing was upside down. He would be guide, 
philosopher, and friend to somebody else. Fired by 
this idea he wrote post-haste for the place of tutor. 
Whatever else he might or might not be, he declared 
that he was the very man to open the mind of intelli- 
gent youth. Indeed, the only danger was that he would 


50 


dick’s wandering. 


tear it open by main force. Who rode his hobby with 
Fabian Deane was in danger of being carried off the 
solid earth, of careering through a very Walpurgis night 
with a benevolent Mephistopheles for guide. Dick’s 
head was fortunately cool. 

For three years the interesting tutor and the promis' 
ing pupil were constant companions. For months at a 
time they lived a quiet life at Glaring, which Fabian 
pronounced the most delightful place in the world, as its 
mistress was the most charming woman. That Mrs. 
Hartland could do no wrong was one of the only two 
opinions which this eccentric genius never changed. 
The other opinion was that in his pupil he had found at 
last a friend. lie found Dick full of curiosity about his 
future possessions and his future duties — about land 
and the people who lived thereon. He showed him 
where to look for answers to all, or almost all, his ques- 
tions. He caught the enthusiasm, as he always caught 
an enthusiasm. He sought in the library the standard 
works of economists ; and he gathered the ephemeral 
pamphlets of politicians and of agitators. He was car- 
ried by his pupil to the houses of farmers, and to the 
cottages of laborers ; and he puzzled the occupants of 
both not a little by his impetuous sympathy and fiery 
volubility. He was introduced by his pupil to Emmens, 
the enlightened cobbler, who, having seen nothing like 
him, regarded him with undeserved suspicion. If he 
could not answer Dick’s question at the moment, he 
spared himself no trouble till he had collected many an- 
swers. It seemed to him a great task to explain the uses 
and the possibilities of land to a wise young landowner. 
His eyes were full of a future paradise ; though its form 
was ever changing with the last new theory which he 


dick’s wandering. 


51 


Bwallowed. He was ever ready to swear that the ques- 
tion of land-tenure was the one question of the day ; he 
became fiercely contemptuous of all other matters ; he 
was fifty times as zealous as Dick, who had first kindled 
his zeal ; he delighted and amused the boy by his ardor. 

The friends spent much of their time in travel, and 
devoted themselves abroad to the same line of study, 
which they had pursued at home. It is true that they 
looked at famous buildings and visited famous picture- 
galleries ; for Dick thought it right to see these things, 
and liked to see them too. Fabian, that whilom devotee 
of Art, scoffed in the presence of cathedrals, and fretted 
before pictures. “ Shadows of shadows ! ” he would 
say ; I can’t stand this dead past, when the present is 
so full of interest. What ’s the good of gaping at these 
works of man, when there is man himself to be stud- 
ied ? ” And he looked with his fiery eyes as if he would 
not only study, but was ready to devour, his kind. But 
the time which they spent in galleries was as nothing to 
that which they passed among tillers of the soil. They 
abandoned all the wonders of Rome that they might 
ramble in the vineyards and olive-yards of a land which 
was held on every conceivable tenure. They turned 
their backs on the Acropolis ; and Fabian swore that no 
flavor of antique Hellas pleased him half so well as the 
coarse bread and resinous wine of the country folk of a 
new Greece. Nearer home they spent months in mak- 
ing friends with the small proprietors around Hamburg ; 
and after a few weeks of Paris they gave a long sum- 
mer to walks and talks in quiet country places by the 
Marne and Saone. 

So after much reading and looking and talking with 
his friend, it came to pass that Dick Hartland, as a tall 


52 


dick’s wandering. 


boy of twenty, knew more than many prominent poli 
ticians about land, and how men live on it. He miglit 
already have adopted a theory, had not the tutor’s habit 
of swallowing theories whole strengthened the pupil’s 
caution. The only definite purpose which he had formed 
was that he would keep his property, so far as he could, 
in his own hands ; that he would not limit in any way 
his power of doing as he liked with this interesting land. 
He was delighted to think how interesting it would be. 
Fabian Deane was quickly coming to the conclusion that 
this boy, whom he had promised to instruct, was the wis- 
est of mankind. If for a moment he was annoyed by 
his caution, he regarded it for the rest of the day with 
something like veneration. He challenged the universe 
to show such another lad, and such another friend. In- 
deed, this friend whom he had found at last was more 
like the original object of his search than he himself 
quite realized. Fabian was more of a philosopher, but 
in their studies, as in their journeys, Dick was for the 
most part guide. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


As the ceaseless roar of Niagara, so is the sound of 
London when her season is at its height. To some this 
vast and complicated machine for the production of 
pleasure seems pitiless, too, as the great Fall, which 
plunges down clear green behind her ever-rising mists 
of rainbow spray, careless if she bury deep below her 
weight of water a log of wood or a little child. To 
some, who have suffered, perhaps, from too much ma- 
chine-made gayety, such fancies may come ; but happily 
not to a boy, who, with good health and spirits, wide- 
eyed for simple pleasure, feels himself on the brink of 
all delightful possibilities. 

Dick Hartland meant to enjoy the holiday, which he 
was sure enough that he had earned. He had but just 
arrived in England after an absence unusually long ; he 
had parted from his tutor for a time. To-morrow he 
would embrace his mother, who, unaware of his coming, 
was spending the night at Glaring. In a few weeks he 
would be of age ; already he felt himself his own mas- 
ter ; one would have thought, from the pleasure which 
this feeling gave him, that he had been kept under the 
strictest control. As he walked up the street to that 
desirable Club, to which, through the influence of his 
uncle, Hervie Langdon, he had been elected in his ab- 
sence, he was possessed by a ridiculous sense of freedom. 
What happiness was in store for him ! No carriage 
passed which did not bear some happy creature to a new 


54 


dick’s wandering. 


enjoyment. He felt sure that of such enjoyments he 
would receive a liberal share. He took it for granted 
that even strangers would treat him well. The young 
man who glanced at him from the hansom would prob- 
ably be his friend before the week was out. As for that 
glimpse of something white and fair in the old family 
chariot, what might not that mean ? If it were indeed 
a girl, who could doubt that she was beautiful and ten- 
der and good ? A vision and a wonder made his young 
heart beat, and his foot move quick on the pavement. 
When he passed through the doors of the sober-seeming 
Club, which had listened to the wicked whisperings of 
generations of old worldlings, and had ogled with its 
prominent eye the beauties of a hundred seasons, there 
\vas a light in the face of the new member, which 
seemed somewhat peculiar even to the porter of long 
experience. 

Dick was pleased to find that the Club dining-room 
was nearly empty. He felt more shy than at any mo- 
ment of his previous life ; and yet his shyness was so 
little painful that it seemed rather to intensify his pleas- 
urable excitement. He was interested in a moment in 
the three young men, who were the only other occupants 
of the room. These w^ere his natural associates; into 
such as these his boy friends must have grown since he 
left school. Yet it seemed hard to believe that a few 
years could have changed the boys, w^hom he remem- 
bered, into beings so polished in appearance, into men 
of the world so complete in every detail. The three 
companions had much in common. Their collars were 
of the same pattern ; their coats had been cut by the 
same hand ; their shoes seemed to have been shaped on 
the same lasts. Moreover, they had the same air of 


dick’s, wandering. 


55 


confidence ; of smartness tempered in different degrees 
by ease ; of youthful health and vivacity toned more or 
less in each by London and late hours. Yet though 
these three young men seemed very much alike at the 
first glance, all likeness was forgotten at the second. 
Certainly the two, whom Dick from his dining-table 
could see well, made an effective contrast. The one 
was tall, dark, and slight, with a peculiar air of dis- 
tinction, and features almost feminine in their delicacy. 
The other was ruddy and cheerful ; and his brown hair 
would have curled like a mulatto’s, but for its rigorous 
and frequent cropping. He seemed full of comical 
thoughts ; he had an unusual share of that frankness 
and freshness which make very small jokes more ac- 
ceptable than the epigrams of ancient diplomatists, and 
which win the smiles even of a weary world. Of the 
third youth, who was dining with these two, Dick Tlart- 
land could see nothing but the back of the head, and 
this was very black, glossy, and close-cropped. 

Dick lingered over his dinner, absorbed in the con- 
templation of this young England, which ought to be so 
familiar, and which was so strange. His eyes were ever 
wandering to them, and his ears were open to their talk. 
After a long and silent observation he would have gone 
away happy, had he not been suddenly roused to fresh 
and less agi eeable interest by the subject of their con- 
versation. He had been listening to a flow of strange 
language, in which one or two phrases seemed every 
moment to recur and to be greeted at each recurrence 
with laughter ; of chaff* more or less personal ; of allu- 
sions to people and places, which were still names of 
little meaning to him. He had been listening like a 
spectator in a foreign theatre, with an agreeable sense 


56 


dick's wandering. 


that the performers were speaking characteristically, 
when he was stai’tled by the sound of a name as familiar 
as his own. 

‘‘ What did Ossie lose last night ? ” asked the tall 
young man with the fastidious expression ; “ do you 
know, Regie?” 

“ They tell me a thousand,” answered his friend of 
the fresh color, with a gravity befitting the subject of 
losses. 

‘‘ More,” said the third gentleman, with a nod of the 
sleek head and a gravity of tone even greater. 

More ! ” cried Regie. 

Oh, Dolamore always makes out the worst about 
Ossie,” said the first speaker, with a slight frown. 

“ I know this,” said Harold Dolamore, with the same 
cool air of superior information, “ I know that Ossie 
can’t last at this rate ; he ain’t a rich man. I ’ll bet you 
a pony that Ossie Langdon is broke before the 12th of 
August.” 

“ It is n’t a thing I care to bet about,” said the other 
shortly. 

“ Well, I can’t help it,” said Harold. “ I ’m as sorry 
as anybody. If I was n’t fond of Ossie, I should be 
sorry for his sister’s sake ; she’s ” — 

All I have to say,” said the other breaking abruptly 
into Dolamore’s speech, “ is that it is not Ossie’s fault. 
He ’s weak as water ; and fellows take advantage of his 
weakness.” He frowned rather more decidedly, and 
there was a slight flush on his cheek. 

“ So she is,” cried Regie, in his most genial manner ; 
^ Miss Betty ’s the prettiest girl in London, bar none.’ 

“ Bar none ! ” echoed Dolamore, in a more moderate 
tone, as he raised his wine-glass to his lips. 


dick’s wandering. 


57 


And you know it, old man,” continued Regie, lean- 
ing forward and making a show of whispering to his 
tall friend, who remained obstinately silent on the sub- 
ject of Miss Langdon’s charms. 

During this conversation Dick Ilartland experienced 
a few minutes’ great discomfort ; he was wholly igno- 
rant of the manners of clubs ; he did not know what to 
do. However, when the talk turned from Ossie to his 
sister, he could not sit still. He left his seat and walked 
across the room ; and then with a most boyish blush he 
said rather hurriedly, I think I ought to say that you 
are talking about my cousins.” 

Regie, who was in the middle of an anecdote, which 
with much laughter he was pouring into Dolamore’s ear, 
gave vent to a peculiar crow, of which he was justly 
proud. “ Ho ! ho ! ” he cried out ; “ so we must n’t talk 
of the gentleman’s cousins.” 

Dick turned upon the speaker with unfeigned aston- 
ishment ; but the tall young man put his hand on his 
arm, and said rather crossly, “ Don’t mind Regie ; he 
always says the wrong thing ; nobody minds Regie ; you 
must know him, don’t you? Everybody knows him; 
he ’s Stanmere, you know.” 

“ I think I remember him at Eton,” said Dick ; “ but 
I shouldn’t have known him.” 

“ I thought I knew your face,” said young Lord 
Stanmere, putting out his hand; ^^you are Hartland; I 
remember you ; you were a swell and 1 was a scug , 
but I remember you. Come over here and fii^ish your 
dinner with us. We are going to the play : we ’ve got 
a box ; there ’s lots of room for you. And you ought to 
remember Harold too, — Harold Dolamore. He was at 
your tutor’s.” 


58 


dick’s wandering. 


Dick turned with surprise to the third member of the 
party, who rose with much politeness to sluike hands 
with him. Certainly Dolamore was much changed from 
the dingy, loutish boy who had attacked Ilartland on the 
first morning of his school-life. He was tlie best dressed 
man, the neatest, and the sleekest of the party. 

AVhen Dick had seated himself at the table of his 
new friends, Stanmere plunged at once into school-talk. 
He certainly enjoyed an amazing flow of words ; and he 
now and then pronounced a sentence or part of a sen- 
tence in a strange tone, which implied powers of mim- 
icry. Yet in spite of the young lord’s gayety and frank 
enjoyment thereof, Dick found it hard to laugh. His 
mind was full of Ossie, and he was already thinking 
how he could help him. At the first opportunity he 
said to the fastidious Torington, “ I suppose my cousin 
has been playing rather high ? ” 

Stanmere crowed aloud. “ Plunging ! ” he cried ; 
‘‘ he ’s been plunging like the war-horse.” 

‘‘ Oh, it ’s nothing,” said Torington ; Ossie has only 
been at the same game as everybody else ; it ’s the thing 
just now ; everybody ’s playing.” 

Dick determined to hope for the best ; he wished to 
amuse himself for that evening at least withoxit uneasy 
thoughts of his cousin. When Stanmere declared that it 
was time to go, he asked what theatre they werq to pat- 
ronize. “ You never need ask Regie,” said Harold Dol- 
amore ; it ’s always the Renaissance. And it’s Patty 
Lane’s benefit and the last night of the season ; and he 
would n’t miss the event for a million, would you. Regie ? 
How many times have you seen ‘the Beautiful Persian,’ 
old man ? ” 

“ Give it up,” answered Regie ; “ I can’t count over 
twenty.” 


dick’s wandering. 


59 


‘‘ It ’s the usual Renaissance business,” said Toring- 
ton rather plaintively ; “ Patty Lane has got the best 
part she has had for a long time ; everybody goes to see 
her ; Regie has been every night.” 

“ No, no,” cried Stanmere ; Patty’s best part was in 
Whatdyecallit — What was that thing they played 
last but one ? You know, Dolly.” 

“ Alonzo.” 

Yes, that was her best part ; she was the fair Emma 
Jane.” He began to hum an air from the extinct bur- 
lesque, but broke off suddenly to say with much gravity, 
“ She thinks it her best part.” 

“ Oh, she does, does she ? ” said his friend Dolamore, 
and he looked askance at Dick, as if he would see what 
he inferred from that statement. 

And now Stanmere, who had scarcely ceased for a 
moment the humming of frivolous melodies, broke at the 
approach of coffee into actual song. This song appeared 
to set forth at due intervals that he was “ a proper 
young man,” and that among other feats he only kissed 
his cousins on the sly.” Perhaps it was not very brill- 
iant, but it seemed to give the singer himself the live- 
liest pleasure, and the hurried delivery of the word 
“ cousins,” which was copied from a popular actor, de- 
lighted him by its spirit and accuracy. 

“Yop needn’t sing to the waiter,” said Torington, 
as the cupbearer disappeared with a smile of respectful 
amusement. 

‘‘ Is n’t Johnny Torington a duke ? ” said Stanmere 
to Dick ; “ he ’s so proud, he won’t know you sometimes ; 
he ’s haughty, sir, doosid haughty.” 

“ He ’s quite right, Regie,” said Dolamore ; you are 
bad form. I shall have to cut you.” 


GO dick’s wandering. 

“ Oh, no, you won’t,” mattered Torington as he got up 
from his chair. 

Cut me ! ” cried Stanmere; “ I mean to cut you both, 
and reform.” 

“ Like Prince Hal,” said Dick. 

The three young men stared at him as if for an ex- 
planation. 

Prince which ? ” inquired Regie, and so glided again 
into song — 

‘ He ’ll catch you a crack 
In the small of the back 
With his thundering great big stick ! ’ 

Is n’t he splendid as the uncle ? ” And he began to 
walk round with his cane under his arm, while the 
waiter, with a condescending smile, stood ready to help 
him into his coat. 


CHAPTER IX. 


It was generally held to be too hot for the theatres ; 
and yet the Renaissance on the night of Patty Lane’s 
benefit was full in every part. It was the right thing to 
do honor to that brilliant little lady. Any woman who 
was in Society could say with a sense of comfort that 
there was scarcely a person in the house whom she did 
not know by sight ; though there were some of her own 
sex with whom she must have declined any more inti- 
mate acquaintance. To the eyes of Dick Ilartland the 
house was brilliant and beautiful as a palace from the 
‘‘ Arabian Nights.” Almost the whole floor was covered 
by the smartest people, male and female. Here and 
there was a great lady made conspicuous by the sobriety 
of her appearance ; but there were others with complex- 
ions of perplexing brilliancy and strangely flaxen hair. 
There were young men of the same pattern as Dick’s 
new friends, whose presence was acknowledged by short 
jerks of the head; but there were others, whose hair 
seemed even shorter, canes and shoes brighter, trousers 
stiffer, and coats tighter, and who stood up more often to 
display their well-tailored figures to the house. Clearly 
distinguished from these were two gentlemen of an ag- 
gressively artistic appearance, who found it necessary to 
explain to themselves and to each other their patronage 
of so frivolous an entertainment by descanting on the 
occult merits of Patty Lane’s performances. These 
subtle ones were privileged to see deep meanings in the 


62 


dick’s wandering. 


little lady’s tones and movements, and they regarded 
with cold antipathy the simpler admiration of their 
cropped and careless neighbors. There was even a met- 
aphysician in the midst of this gay audience — a philos- 
opher who came on principle, that he might lull to rest 
the understanding, and might stimulate the fancy to the 
recollection of agreeable shapes, with a view to dreams. 
Such, with the inevitable sprinkling of commonplace if 
worthy people, were the occupants of the stalls of the 
Renaissance Theatre. Stanmere and Dolamore left their 
box when the curtain fell for the first time, and came 
back after a rather long absence, the young lord radiant 
with the early knowledge of the last joke popular behind 
the scenes, and his companion with an appearance of 
amusement more decorously subdued. Dick was an- 
noyed with himself for being unable to put away his old 
school prejudice against Dolamore. He disapproved of 
prejudices in the abstract, but was apt nevertheless to 
trust his own until he could get better evidence. Tie 
was confident that he w^ould soon see through this fellow ; 
for he held that men were easily understood. Mean- 
while he was irritated by him, and annoyed with himself 
for his causeless irritation. The truth is that young 
]\Ir. Dolamore affected many men in the same manner. 
There was something irritating in his repose, which 
seemed too perfect to be wholly natural. He had a 
manner not uncommon in these days. It is the effect 
of a determination to be scrupulously gentleman-like ; 
and deep in the soul of those who have cultivated it 
one may suspect a latent fear that, if they dared to be 
natural, especially if they dared to be naturally gay, 
some deep suppressed vulgarity would spring to light. 
It is a manner assumed by clever young men, who have 


dick’s wandering. 


63 


a taste for companions better bred than themselves, and 
a nervous fear lest this taste should be confounded with 
snobbishness. It is a coolly independent manner ; it is 
very like nature ; it becomes in course of tin>e almost 
natural; it is so good that to those who wear it well 
one may hear the name “ gentleman ’’ applied rather 
more often than is really flattering. Harold Dolamore 
dressed a little better than his constant companion Stan- 
mere, and a little more soberly ; he laughed much less 
loud and less often. Though his scrutiny was so cool as 
to be sometimes almost insolent, his manner in address- 
ing an acquaintance was far more polite than his friend’s. 
Whether Stanmere was a good judge of Dolamore’s mer- 
its, or knew why he saw so much of him, may well be 
doubted ; but he had been heard more than once to de- 
clare that Dolly was the best fellow in the world, be- 
cause he was such a gentleman. 

As the curtain was rising on the next act of this 
elaborate burlesque, a gentleman and two ladies came 
into the opposite box, which had been conspicuous as 
the only empty box on the tier. In the first lady Dick 
recognized a connection of his own. This was Lady 
Raebo rough. Her vie Langdon’s sister, and a very in- 
fluential person in Society ; and the man who followed 
her into the box was her husband, the eleventh earl, 
who seemed to concentrate in his heavy form and per- 
plexed face the weariness of the ten who had gone be- 
fore. There was a Raeborough lip, of which the family 
were justly proud, but it was a lip which did not lend 
itself easily to smiles. But neither this man nor his 
wife kept Dick’s attention for more than a moment ; it 
was the girl who was with them on whom his eyes 
were fixed with wonder. Who is it ? ’’ he said. 


64 


dick’s wandering. 


“ Don’t you know Lady Eaeborougli ? ” asked Dola- 
raore, wlio was regarding her with direct but respectful 
admiration. 

“ Yes, yes,” said Dick ; “ but the other ? ” 

“ Well, that ’s a good ’un,” said Stanmere ; “ don’t 
you know your own cousin ? ” % 

“ My cousin ! Is that Betty ? ” 

That ’s Miss Langdon ; ain’t it, Tory ? ” 

“ Eh ? What ? ” said Torington, who had been look- 
ing across the house, and had heard nothing of what the 
others were saying. 

During that act Dick’s eyes wandered again and again 
from the stage to the opposite box. As he looked 
he recognized the girl whom he had known from child- 
hood ; and yet he could scarcely believe that this young 
woman of the world was she. It was not more than a 
year since he had seen her; and she was a different 
creature. To this simple youth, who had no knowledge 
of the arts of the dressmaker and hairdresser, and who 
had never considered the revolution which is effected in 
a single day of a young girl’s life by the strange process 
of “ coming out,” the change in Miss Langdon was in- 
explicable. Pie remembered a blooming young hoyden, 
restless and lazy, in a rather shapeless school-room 
frock ; and here before his eyes was a beautiful young 
lady, simply but exquisitely dressed, who sat quite still to 
look at the play. Instead of the rough tumbled locks of 
old, here was a fair head, bright and smooth, save where 
the hair was short and curly above the forehead. Dick 
was amazed by her beauty. He had always heard that 
she was pretty, and had accepted the fact without doubt 
and without enthusiasm. He remembered with a sense 
of shame liow untidy she used to be, and how passion- 


dick’s wandering. 


65 


ately fond of chocolate. With shame more acute he re- 
membered that he used to call her “ Fatty ; ” that when 
she was lying in the hammock, half asleep, and with a 
flushed cheek nestled on her arm, he had more than once 
recalled her to the rude realities of life by an unlooked- 
for swinging. Was this fair being, with the outlines of 
face so softly rounded and the skin so dazzling, the same 
girl whom he had dared to call Fatty ” ? Lived there 
a man who would dare set swinging the hammock in 
which this radiant loveliness sought repose ? Great are 
the changes of a single year in the history of a young 
gill’s life. Nature and art had combined to adorn Miss 
Betty. Society and the example of Lady Raeboroiigh 
had changed the school-girl, whom Dick condescended to 
notice when there were no boys about, into the beautiful 
being, who, when she lazily turned her eyes from the 
stage as the curtain fell, nodded and smiled to her 
cousin with an air of good-humored protection. 

When Dick had entered Lady Raeborough’s box, and 
he and Betty saw each more nearly, they were both 
blushing, — but he blushed the most. Lady Raebor- 
ough received the young man with much kindness. She 
liked boys, and she liked them to have good manners 
and a good appearance. If in addition to these gifts 
they had money, she was pleased to take care of them, 
to warn them against one female friend, to throw them 
in the way of another. Her influence with youth was 
so great that harassed mothers trembled at her nod, and 
wily mothers paid assiduous court to her. She had a 
very refined taste for making marriages. She could 
command the attentions of the most agreeable men in 
London. She called more men by their Christian 
names than did any woman of her acquaintance ; and 


66 


dick’s wandering. 


yet not a woman of them all had ever dared to breathe 
a serious accusation against her. Indeed, few wished to 
accuse her, for she on her side never spoke ill of any- 
body. As this is a rare virtue in her sex, so is it a vir- 
tue which never fails of its reward. Women are very 
tolerant of a woman whose tongue they need not fear ; 
for it is the fear of being stabbed by her friend to-mor- 
row which makes many a woman stab her friend to-day. 
Taught by their own mouths how easily the tongue wags 
and with what deadly effect, the weaker sisters smile 
upon each other with terror in their hearts ; each is 
nervously eager to anticipate the other with some cruel 
speech. Such are the weapons of the weak ; and to 
such weak ones the rare woman, from whom they feel 
absolutely safe, imparts a restful feeling, for which they 
are profoundly grateful. Lady Raeborough was natu- 
rally good-natured ; and she was also well aware that 
to her good-nature she owed much of that freedom 
which made her life so pleasant, and which she had 
never abused. This popular and delightful lady saw at 
a glance that young Hartland would do her credit. She 
noticed in a moment his neat figure, his pleasant smile 
his air of frankness and intelligence, and a certain natu 
ral simplicity of one who is never obliged to think 
about his manners. She liked his eyes too, though they 
were perhaps a little too innocent. “ I shall call you 
Dick,” she said ; “ I am a sort of aunt ; but it ’s a hor- 
rible word, and if you ever talk about me as your aunt 
1 shall kill you. And you must come to my dance to- 
morrow ; I am giving a dance for this child. Good- 
night.” 

•‘Yes, do come, Dick,” said Betty, smiling; “good- 
night.” 


CHAPTER X. 


When Dick woke the next morning, his first thought 
was of his cousin Ossie. He rebuked himself for having 
thought so litlle of him the night before. The light 
and movement of the stage, the strange audience, the 
new friends, and above all the surprising beauty of the 
culprit’s sister, had driven poor Ossie’s troubles clean 
out of his head. Now, however, he felt ready for any- 
thing. He would dedicate the morning to the discovery 
of his wayward cousin, and of the true state of his 
finances. He sang, as he dressed himself, happy as a 
happy warrior, with a task which would tax his strength. 
All the morning he could give to this good work ; for 
his mother would not return from Glaring before lunch- 
eon. When his mother came, he must think of her. 
Indeed, he w^as thinking of her a great deal already. 
Everything in her small, well-ordered London house was 
eloquent of her ; the quiet charm of her presence seemed 
to linger like the scent of rose-leaves, though she had 
gone away. As he sat alone at breakfast in the pretty 
dining-room, he could almost see his mother opposite, 
pretty and demure in her fresh cap, so eminently neat 
where everything about her was neat. He made a little 
bow to the empty chair ; he laughed, with a sense of his 
good fortune in having a mother of whom he could be 
so proud. Not long after breakfast Dick dashed out of 
the house, and hurried away in pursuit of Ossie. Since 
nothing would induce Hervie Langdon to sleep in town 


68 


dick’s wandering. 


in the season, and Lady Raeborougli did not find it con 
venient to take in a nephew as well as a niece, Ossie 
had secured for himself a couple of little rooms not far 
from Piccadilly ; and thither Dick hastened, with the 
natural expectation of finding his cousin in bed. lie 
smiled to himself with the pleasing thought that, if Ossie 
were in bed, he could by no means escape from the 
lecture which he deserved. He was admitted by a slat- 
ternly maid-servant, who conducted him to his cousin’s 
sitting-room. The sitting-room was empty, and he 
marched through it without ceremony into the bedroom ; 
but here, also, there was nobody. It looked as if the 
culprit had escaped. The slavey was perplexed and a 
little resentful when Dick questioned her about the 
lodger’s whereabouts ; but she consented to see if Mr 
Langdon’s servant was in the house. Dick paced about 
the little rooms, which were very untidy, and showed a 
strange mixture of the lodger’s sumptuous property and 
the dingy, dusty goods of the landlady. A large dress- 
ing-case ; a liberal display of ivory brushes, of which a 
pair had strayed as far as the fringed mantelpiece of 
the sitting-room ; a silver cigarette-case ; a cane with a 
top of Dresden china lying across the rickety centre- 
table ; an opera hat in the flabby arm-chair ; a smoking- 
suit of stamped velvet on the dusty floor ; the florid 
frame of the dingy looking-glass bristling with cards of 
invitation : these and other details made Dick, in spite 
of his disappointment, smile at their agreement witli 
him, who ought to have been the central figure in the 
picture. The scene was provokingly characteristic; but 
where was the actor ? At last Ossie’s servant appeared, 
very respectful, but unluckily very ignorant. All that 
he knew was that Mr. Langdon had come in on the pre- 


dick’s wandering. 


69 


vious day when he himself w^as absent, had packed a 
few things with his own hands, forgetting, as the narra- 
tor did not fail to observe with an air of decent regret, 
some of the most essential articles ; and that he had left 
word with the young woman, who seemed to have for- 
gotten the fact since the night before, as indeed was her 
invariable custom, that he was going into the country. 
Neither the young woman nor anybody else could say 
when he intended to come back. 

Foiled in his attempt to capture his cousin in bed, 
Dick next proceeded to visit all the clubs of which Ossie 
was a member ; but at no one of them could he obtain 
any news of this irregular member. Then he went to 
Lady Raeborough’s house, on the steps of which he en- 
countered a young palm-tree and a gay company of flow- 
ers, who were the earliest and not the least beautiful 
guests at the ball of the evening ; but not even here 
could he gain any information about the object of his 
search. Upon this he made up his mind to rest for a 
time ; and since the luncheon hour was past and he was 
very hungry, he jumped into a cab and was driven home- 
ward. lie had done a good morning’s work ; and 
though he had learned but little, his conscience was at 
rest. He felt very happy in these old streets, full of 
afternoon sunlight and the comfortable sound of rolling 
carriages. It was pleasant to feel himself a part of this 
humanity, so pleasure-loving, so leisurely active. Little 
notes were floating over half London — invitations, en- 
treaties, refusals, regrets, rapturous acceptances on fra- 
grant note-paper. The solemn business of dropping 
cards was already beginning, and majestic butlers ap- 
peared framed in majestic doorways. A brilliant lady 
was carried by in her Victoria with her collie, grave- 


70 


dick’s wandering. 


eyed, beside her ; another no less fair sat by her nurse 
and the baby, who little knew the value of her own 
lace ; a third was glancing hither and thither with bright 
eyes from her place between her two little girls, a very 
mother of butterflies. All such things, fleeting beauties 
in the sunshine, passed the quick, observant eyes o£ 
young Hartland, who was delighted with the little com- 
edies of life. How pretty and gay it all was, and how 
innocent it all seemed ! 

When Dick had reached his mother’s house, he was 
told that she had arrived. He ran quickly up-stairs. 
The door of the drawing-room stood open, and in the 
doorway he stood still with a feeling of surprise ; for 
there was Ossie, whom he had been seeking with such 
zeal. 

Mrs. Hartland was sitting in a low chair by the open 
window ; and close beside her stood her loving nephew, 
and neatly rearranged the flowers on her little table. 
They were so absorbed by their talk that neither had 
heard the light quick step upon the stairs. Dick, as he 
looked with admiration at the pretty group, felt some- 
thing like a pang. It struck him that such as these were 
the little attentions which people talked about as pleas- 
ing to women ; he feared that he would be too forgetful 
of them all his life. The next moment he laughed at 
himself, and laughing stepped into the room with the 
slanting sunlight on his face. Ossie turned to greet him 
with the greatest delight. He held him by both hands, 
and beamed upon him with an expression so child-like, 
tender, and innocent that Dick straightway forgot all 
the stories of his wildness and high play. ‘‘ Let me go,” 
said Dick; ‘‘I want to kiss my mother.” He kissed her 
very tenderly, and allowed himself to be kissed on both 


dick’s wandkring. 


71 


cheeks. Then he blushed a little under her calm mater- 
nal gaze. ‘‘ 1 ’m all right, mother, ain’t I ? ” he asked ; 
and then he began to tell her all that had befallen him 
since he came to London the day before. He praised 
Torington and Stanmere, his club and his dinner; he 
praised the theatre and Lady Raeborough, who had been 

awfully kind ” to him ; he expended a double portion 
of praise on the beauty of Betty, at which her brother 
Ossie, being now in a sentimental mood, sighed gently. 

I am glad to see that you are as easily pleased as 
ever,” said Sophie Hartland, patting her son’s cheek 
lightly. 

‘‘ There ’s so much to be pleased with,” said Dick 
largely. “ But what I want most now,” he added, is 
a little cold meat. I ’ve been hunting for Ossie all the 
morning, and I ’ve had no luncheon.” 

‘‘ Ossie went down to Glaring with me,” said Mrs. 
Hartland; he has been a dear boy and a very good 
nephew. If you ring the dining-room bell they will 
bring you something to eat ; and take Ossie with you, 
for I am going to be busy.” 

Dick was staring at his cousin and wondering. Was 
it possible that this was the gambler of whose losses the 
clubs were talking? Dick’s long experience of the 
young man obliged him to confess that it was possible 
indeed. 

Dick did not think it wise to begin his talk with scold- 
ing, and so, while Ossie sat in the arm-chair and watched 
him eating his late luncheon, he began to speak about 
his companions of the evening before. “ Torington ’s an 
awfully good fellow,” he said. When the other fellows 
went off after the play, he would walk home with me ; 
he talked to me as if we bad been friends all our lives ; 

4 


72 


dick’s, wandering. 


he told me all about himself ; he talked about you as if 
he really cared about you, and — what are you smiling 
at?” 

“ You innocent old Dick,” said Ossie. “ I am Betty's 
brother, and you are her cousin. Don’t you know that 
Tory is over head and ears in love with Betty ? ” 

“ In love with Betty ! ” 

“ That ’s nothing to shout about. Everybody ’s in love 
with Betty. She ’s the young woman of the year. I 
wish she ’d be a little more careful.” And here Ossie 
shook his head slowly and with great solemnity. 

What do you mean ? ” 

“ I don’t like the way she goes on. She keeps poor 
dear Tory in a fever. One day she ’s so kind that he 
thinks it all right j and the next she yawns when he 
talks to her. Then she flirts with other chaps ; she will 
flirt with that fellow Dolly, though I asked her not to.” 

“ What sort of a fellow is he now ? ” 

‘‘ Oh, he ’s an awfully good chap, of course ; but, of 
course, I would n’t let Betty marry him.” 

“ Fancy little Betty breaking people’s hearts ! ” said 
Dick, after a pause ; and he began to laugh. “ Unless 
she ’s much changed,” he added, “ she won’t ask your 
permission when she wants to marry somebody.” 

No ; I am afraid not,” said Ossie, with a chastened 
gravity. 

“ From what I hear, you don’t take any too good care 
of yourself. Torington told me you ’d been playing too 
high.” 

I ’ve given it up now altogether,” answered Ossie, 
with the same admirable seriousness. I was telling 
your mother, when you came in, that I should never 
toucli a card again.” 


dick’s wandering. 


73 


Did you promise her ? ” asked Dick anxiously. 

“ She wouldn’t let me promise. But there ’s no need 
of promises : I don’t care a bit for play.” He turned in 
his chair, and laid a hand caressingly on his cousin’s 
shoulder as he added, Nobody understands me but 
you, Dick.” 

“ I don’t,” said Dick. 

“ Oh yes, you do,” said Ossie, regarding him with ex- 
treme gentleness and with half-closed eyes. You al- 
ways did understand me. I don’t really care a bit for 
cards ; or betting ; or rowdy people ; or society ; or any- 
thing of the sort. I am really domestic. What I like 
best in the world is talking to some good woman like 
your mother.” 

“ That ’s right,” said Dick ; you are under the right 
spell there. She is a good woman.” 

I ought to marry a woman like that,” said Ossie 
sentimentally, — “a good, gentle woman with sweet 
gray eyes. I would go and live in the country — not at 
Windsor or Ascot, or any of those cockney countries — 
but far away in Cornwall or somewhere ; and I ’d farm ; 
I should like to farm. I think I care more for flowers 
‘han for anything in the world.” 

‘‘ Well, before you quite give up Bie world, Ossie, I 
hope you ’ll come with me to the Raeboroughs’ to-night. 
I shall be shy, if you don’t.” 

‘‘ I can’t,” said Ossie, shaking his head once more ; 
‘‘ I ’ve promised to go and tea with the Merdale children. 
Do you know them ? They are the dearest children in 
the world, and so fond of me ; they won’t let me go till 
any hour.” 

They ’ll be in bed before eleven ; they won’t keep 
you from the ball.” 


74 


dick’s wandering. 


“ I should n’t be in the mood,” said Ossie, gravely. 
Then as his dreamy eye happened to wander to the 
clock, he jumped up in a hurry. By George ! ” he 
cried, “ I shall be late : I promised to go to tea with 
Nelly H. P.” 

‘‘Who’s Nelly H. P.?” 

“ Ilurte Parkinson ! You know Nelly Parkinson ! 

“ I know her photograph,” said Dick ; “ everybody 
icuows that.” 

“ She ’s the best fun in the world,” cried Ossie, with 
sparkling eyes ; “ but she ’s an awdul little cat. If I 
did n’t make desperate love to her, she ’d do Betty an ill 
turn.” 

“ Why should she want to harm Betty ? ” 

“ Oh, she ’s a great friend of Betty’s ; and Betty ’s so 
awfully thoughtless.” 

“ A nice sort of friend she seems to be,” said Dick. 

“ Oh, she ’s all right ; she ’s perfectly good form ; 
everybody likes her. If I were to throw her over this 
afternoon, she wouldn’t rest till she ’d done Betty a bad 
turn ; I have to be awfully devoted for Betty’s sake ; 
it ’s an awful bore ; I must rush ; good-by, dear boy ; I 
shall look you up to-morrow.” 

Dick heard the front door shut behind his cousin, and 
sat alone wondering what he should do with him. 


CHAPTER XL 


A DINING wit, who in spite of bis youth was a guest 
at many tables, once said that her society lay in circles 
round Lady Raeborough, as the Inferno round Lucifer. 
The comparison lacked grace, but was not without truth. 
Indeed, so vast and unwieldy has London society be- 
come, that every year it tends more and more to form 
itself anew into sets, each distinct though not exclusive 
of the others’ members, each composed of ring within 
ring ; and at the centre of each — centre of the inner- 
most and most intimate ring — is a family, a house, a 
woman. But as the moon is fairer than the other beau- 
ties of the heaven, so did Lady Raeborough outshine all 
other leaders of society. The best people went to her 
more gladly than to any other ; and those happy men 
who were admitted to the smallest parties of all these 
eminent women had the name of Lady Raeborough most 
often on their lips. It was not her rank which made this 
lady great, though the earldom was one of the oldest in 
England; it was not the family house, though few 
could boast of finer rooms. A quick eye for the more 
obvious traits of character, and consummate tact in deal- 
ing with them ; unfailing self-confidence, combined with 
feminine charm ; the rare and natural good-humor, 
which did not prevent her from executing prompt jus- 
tice on the wretch whose offence against society could 
by no means be ignored ; the hand of iron in the Pa- 
risian glove ; the kind heart under the Parisian gown- ; 


76 


dick’s wandering. 


the quick ear to hear ; the tongue which was so often 
witty and so seldom cruel : these were the gifts and vir- 
tues which made this happy lady a queen in the social 
world. Her very rivals were not embittered by her 
success ; the coldest among them but rarely cared to 
hint disapproval of her delightful gayety and harmless 
freedom. Free and gay she sat upon her social throne, 
and her society lay in circles around her. Farthest 
from her, in the widest circle, were people of all kinds, 
— political supporters of the Earl’s brother, country 
neighbors and their cousins, most respectable ladies at- 
tended by Thomas, Richard, and Henry, — the great 
crowd who three times a year thronged the broad stair- 
case, and jostled each other respectfully under the wide 
ceilings, which had been sumptuously painted by a 
modern imitator of the Caracci. In this wide region 
priestesses of the innermost sanctuary met with effusion ; 
but not one of those who belonged exclusively to this 
most distant place might set foot a fourth time in the 
year within that spacious marble hall. Three times 
they were received with consummate grace ; for the 
rest they were absent from that lady’s busy mind, but 
were present on her list, till the hand of Death, or of 
the implacable butler whose task it was to punish the 
neglect of social duties, struck out their names. Within 
this glacial circle were regions, ring within ring, each 
more genial as it lay nearer to the central glow ; and 
the denizens of each enjoyed the privileges of all out- 
side them with some peculiarly their own. Those came 
.0 smaller gatherings, and dined occasionally at the most 
formal banquets ; these dined more often and sometimes 
at more friendly dinner-parties. Close around the cen- 
tre of the target, the very gold, the lady herself, were 


dick’s wandering. 


77 


the select, the chosen intimates, the dear friends of the 
charming Countess of Raeborough. Within this sacred 
circle a duchess, whose influence was confined too 
strictly to her county, might fear to tread ; but a little 
lady, whom everybody knew, though it was doubtful if 
even she knew her grandfather, was one of its most 
sparkling ornaments. To these sacred precincts the 
dining wit, who was but young to his work, stung by 
some gadfly of a mad ambition, had like the fabled fool 
rushed in. Around him was babble of talk, which fell 
on his startled ear as from an unknown tongue ; talk of 
people called by Christian names or more familiar ab- 
breviations ; the last tale of Charlie’s wildness, or of 
Susan’s extravagance. Chilled by this rare atmosphere 
the diner was deserted by his wit ; his great loose lips 
hung dry and doleful ; silence became intolerable ; call- 
ing all his vanity to support him he plunged into a story, 
which was not quite new, and which was too broad for 
the occasion. It was at some moment during the next 
twenty-four hours that this unfortunate young man, 
striving to solace his wounded spirit with epigrams, 
chanced on that comparison of Lady Raeborough with 
the central figure of the Inferno, which has been con- 
demned already as deficient in grace. 

It need hardly be said that the ball, to which Dick 
Hartland had been bidden, was not one of the most ex- 
•'lusive gatherings. There was need of many people, 
that the great rooms might not appear uncomfortably 
empty. It was necessary, too, that there should be 
troops of dancing men ; and the majority of these had 
no individuality in the eyes of their hostess, who re- 
ceived them with such artful-artless grace. Many a 
youth, whose name she had never cared to ask, fancied 


78 


dick’s wandering. 


that he had made an impression : by such agreeable 
means did Lady Kaeborough increase without effort the 
general sum of happiness. 

Dick had been commanded to come early, and he was 
one of the first to touch the slender hand of his hostess, 
who stood like a benignant goddess at the head of her 
great staircase. From Lady Raeborough his eyes 
turned to the girl who stood beside her. If Betty had 
looked beautiful in the theatre, she looked twice as 
beautiful now ; she was radiant in her new gown, and 
with the prospect of pleasure. She greeted her cousin 
with great good humor on his first appearance in her 
little world. “ Can you dance ? ’’ she asked. 

“ I think so,” said Dick. 

She gave a little laugh, which showed her white teeth, 
as she said : “ If you ain’t sure, you had better talk to 
me when I am not dancing.” Here her manner changed, 
and she added with far more emphasis, “ Please, Dick; 
whenever I am not dancing ; I ’ve so much to tell you.” 

Dick was surprised by the change, but, as he was 
about to question her, he felt himself gently pushed 
aside. Torington was in his place, and was asking his 
cousin for a dance. “ How are you ? ” said Dick cheer- 
fully to his new friend. 

Torington nodded ; but the eye which he turned on 
Dick was less cordial than on the previous evening. 

“ No, I am not engaged,” said Betty, lazily ; and as 
she moved away on Torington’s arm she turned to say 
to her cousin, — ‘‘ Remember ! Directly after this 
dance ! ” 

‘‘ If you would rather not dance this ” — began Tor- 
ington coldly. 

‘‘ Oh, I don’t mind,” she said ; ‘‘ come on ; somebody 
must begin.” 


dick’s wandering. 


79 


And now the rooms began to fill more quickly, and 
the babble of voices grew fuller in the ear. Dick, who 
knew very few people, drew back into a corner and 
looked out with curiosity and excitement. He seemed 
to be aware for the first time of the beauty of women. 
He had talked without a thrill with the peasant women 
of France or Holland ; he had chatted all his life with 
the housewives of his native village ; but it was hard to 
examine these fair ladies with the same cool accuracy. 
He was strangely uncritical that evening. He gazed 
with admiration on complexions which deceived no one 
else ; he saw poetry in the dark circles of Miranda’s 
eyes, nor suspected the soft touch of the pencil. If on 
every side was abundant hair, flaxen, golden, or foxy-red, 
was he not among his own fair countrywomen ? When 
the dance was finished, he remembered his cousin’s com- 
mands, and went to look for her. She was standing in 
the doorway ; and exactly opposite to her and talking to 
her was that most brilliant of beauties, Mrs. Hurte Park- 
inson. All about the doorway men were looking and 
comparing ; behind Betty’s elbow was Torington, looking 
taller and paler than usual ; for the rest a small space 
was left about the ladies. Mrs. Parkinson’s hair was 
of the most becoming shade, her cheek not too brilliant, 
her eyebrows not too strongly contrasted with the fair 
fuzzy curls on the top of her head ; her dress was pe- 
culiar and yet strictly fashionable ; her slim but remark 
ably pretty figure was displayed to the best advantage. 
It seemed to Dick that Betty was altogether too cool 
under the direct and critical scrutiny of this little woman. 
He thought too that Torington, who avoided his eye, 
liked this little scene no better than he did. 

Mrs. Parkinson stood with her head on one side and 


80 


dick’s wandering. 


dangling her large fan. “ How lovely you look to-night,” 
she said with the prettiest emphasis on the adjective. 
The girl pouted and fanned herself. She liked direct 
compliments ; she liked the presence of men, who stood 
about and admired her ; she was glad that Dick was a 
witness of this little triumphal episode ; but the chief 
pleasure of the moment was derived from the knowl- 
edge that John Torington was close to her, and could 
not tear himself away in spite of his annoyance. Miss 
Langdon liked to be the centre of a little scene, if it 
did n’t involve too much trouble. She loved amusement 
when it was brought to her. On this occasion it was 
brought to her in a most lively shape. Stanmere pushed 
his way through the admiring men, and his face was 
beaming like the sun. “ It ’s our dance, Miss Lang- 
don,” he said ; ‘‘ how goes it, Mrs. Parkinson ? I sup- 
pose Miss Langdon ’ll throw me over as usual.” 

No,” said Betty, smiling in her most agreeable 
manner, and she went away listening to an animated 
flow of nonsense ; as she went, she nodded to Dick ; 
but she gave neither look nor word to Torington, who 
turned gloomily away to the staircase. 

“ Of course you don’t see poor me,” said Miss Bond, 
as Torington almost stepped on her ; “ nobody sees 
me when all these beauties are on the carpet ; I am only 
fit to be trampled on.” Susan Bond was a popular girl, 
and even more clever than popular. She w^as not pretty, 
but she was always well dressed ; she danced well, and 
with all sorts of partners ; she had good teeth, and was 
given to much laughter. She could play the piano, do 
conjuring tricks, arrange tableaux, and talk to almost 
anybody about almost anything. She had a reputation 
Cor making things go off well. She was such a nice 


dick’s wandering. 


81 


girl to have in a country house. Is n’t Betty a perfect 
dear to-night ? ” she said to Torington. She was given 
to rapture about her girl friends ; and she knew that this 
young man would like the subject, if somebody else 
would introduce it. 

As Dick was looking and wondering, he felt a touch 
on his shoulder ; he turned and saw the smiling face of 
his hostess. 

Who are you staring at ? ” she asked, and she held 
up a warning figure ; “ have you fallen in love with any- 
body ?” 

With everybody ! ” answered Dick, laughing ; ‘‘it ’s 
intoxicating ; I am in love with them all.” 

“ Them all ! ” said drily the old Statesman, on whose 
arm Lady Eaeborough was leaning. “ We should have 
said ‘ you all,’ and not excluded the most charming 
woman in the rooms.” The old gentleman directed a 
skinny forefinger towards Dick’s ribs, and chuckled. 
“ Dull dogs, these boys, dull dogs ! ” he added to the 
lady, as they moved away together. 

A little later in the evening Dick found himself, with 
some surprise, on the most friendly terms with the fas- 
cinating Mrs. Parkinson. She was delighted with his 
freshness ; she told him that he was cherubic, and sug- 
gested that he should take her down to supper. When 
they entered the dining-room, she gave a little cry of in- 
terest. “ There ’s your naughty little cousin Ossie,” she 
said. Ossie, in spite of his protestations, was undoubt- 
edly there ; though he had not advanced beyond the 
ground-floor. He had brought Dolamore to supper; 
and the friends were supping gayly. 

“ You naughty boy ! ” said Mrs. Parkinson ; “ why 
did n’t you come earlier, and dance with me ? ” 


82 


dick’s wandering. 


‘‘ I could n’t/’ said Ossie, gravely ; “ I ’ve been doing 
a Bear for the Merdale children.” 

Are you a bear still ? ” asked the lady, “ or will you 
ask me to dance, now that you are here ? ” 

‘‘ It can’t be done,” said Ossie ; “ I ’ve a very particu- 
lar engagement ; ” and he shook his elbow with a know- 
ing air. 

“ Naughty boy ! naughty boy ! ” said the lady archly. 

“ Where ’s H. P. ? ” asked the boy ; “ you know I ’ve 
some peculiar tastes, — I like H. P.” 

“ You are really too good,” said Mrs. Ilurte Parkin- 
son ; ‘‘ the poor dear has got another of his colds ; he 
insisted on my not staying at home.” 

To tallow his nose. I should like to see you doing 
the domestic.” Ossie winked slightly at Dick, and filled 
the lady’s glass with champagne. “ And you came here 
to see me ? ” he asked, with exaggerated tenderness. 

The lady laughed a most silvery laugh. Ridicu- 
lous child ! ” she said. “ Take me up-stairs, Mr. Hart- 
land, before your cousin says anything wicked.” 

“ Where are you going ? ” asked Dick of Ossie. 

To the club,” said he ; “ come on there when Mrs. 
II. P. is tired of you ; I ’m furiously jealous of you ; 
come on, Dolly ; you ’ve had enough to eat ; let ’s to 
business, my boy.” 


CHAPTER XIL 


When Dick went up-stairs after supper, he found that 
the scene had changed. Many people had gone, and 
others were refreshing themselves in the dining-room. 
There was no longer a crowd ; and the more serious 
dancers were dancing with the religious zeal of whirl- 
ing dervishes. They assured each other in the neces- 
sary pauses and with broken voices, that it was delight- 
ful to have room to move, that the floor was perfect, 
that it was the best house in London for a ball. But, 
though these were warm in their praises as in their 
blood, they were not many enough to counteract the gen- 
eral air of weariness. There were girls to whom the 
right men had not been attentive ; men who had missed 
expected pleasures or were repenting neglected duties ; 
thin mothers growing chilly at the approach of dawn, 
and fat mothers half strangled by unconquerable yawns. 
Even in Dick’s eyes the fresh beauty of many faces had 
faded like a dream ; even he could hardly be blind to 
powder deep upon the withered cheek and little wrinkles 
at the corners of dark-rimmed eyes. Something excess- 
ive in the bloom of the lady who was leaning on his 
arm made him avert his gaze, while he blushed at his 
unmanly suspicions. As his eyes wandered round the 
room, they met those of his cousin Betty. Miss Lang- 
don showed no sign of fatigue. If she were a little less 
rosy, she seemed the lovelier for this new refinement ; if 
her gown were a little less fresh, it draped more exqui- 
sitely her beautiful form. 


84 


DICK’S WANDERING. 


“ Leave me on this chair, please,’^ said Mrs. Parkiii- 
BOD, with her quick, bird-like glance and sudden smile ; 
“ leave me ; your cousin wants you ; go.” 

Dick bowed with a smile for her little imperious man- 
ner. When he came to Betty, she seated herself and 
pointed to the next chair. 

‘‘ You have n’t been near me all the evening,” she 
said. 

I have n’t had a chance,” said Dick ; “ you ’ve had 
an army of people running after you. I can’t get over 
it, Betty ; I can’t get over your being such a personage ; 
a young lady with a troop of lovers, and ” — 

Hush ! ” said Betty ; “ you must n’t talk like that. 
Suppose somebody heard you.” 

“ There ’s Torington,” said Dick, looking witli a 
smile to the opposite doorway, from whence his new 
friend was surveying the room. Torington wore an ex- 
aggerated air of indifference, wdiich seemed hardly con- 
sistent with the nervous energy of the \|iands that were 
busily twisting his gloves into a confused knot. 

“ Don’t look at him,” murmured Betty, with her eyes 
fixed on the fan in her lap ; I want to talk to you.” 
In spite of this statement she seemed to have nothing 
to say ; and after some minutes’ waiting Dick said, “ I ’m 
off : I think Toringtou wants to speak to you.” 

‘‘ Please ! please don’t go ! ” 

There was no resisting this soft appealing voice, and 
the look which came with the words. Dick was bound 
to stay ; but he felt that if he stayed he ought to scold 
his cousin. 

Betty,” he said, in that tone which Ossie had known 
so well in Eton days as the warning signal of an ap- 
proaching “jaw,” — “Betty,” he said, “I feel as if 
you were being awfully hard on Torington.” 


dick’s wandering. 


85 


She looked at him with gravity and regret, but there 
was promise of a demure smile about the corners of her 
mouth. 

“ Everybody seems to know that he is in love with 
you,” he added, severely. 

“ Hush ! ” she said ; “ you really must n’t talk in this 
shocking way.” 

‘‘You ought not to behave badly,” said Dick, warm- 
ing to his work ; “ you know what power you ’ve got ; 
and you ought not to use that power just to make mis- 
chief — to do harm in the world.” 

“ Power ! I ! ” she murmured. 

“ Oh, you know all about it,” said Dick ; “you know 
well enough that you ought not to play fast and loose 
with a good fellow. You are bound either to take him, 
or to let him go. Do you mean to take him ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” she answered ; “ how comical you 
are ! ” and she laughed. 

“ You ought to know. You ought to think of him.” 

“ I think too much of him,” she said, and sighed ; 
“ I ’m tired to death of thinking about him.” 

“ Do you mean to marry him ? ” 

“ Had n’t I better wait till he asks me ? ” she asked, 
softly. 

“ You know he ’d ask you fast enough, if you gave 
him a chance.” 

“ Please don’t go ; O Dick, please don’t leave me ; if 
you leave me for a moment, till he ’s gone, I ’ll never 
forgive you. Please ! ” 

Miss Langdon threw so much expression into the 
word “ Please ” that few men could resist it. 

“ Should you like him to marry any one else ? ” asked 
the Inquisitor, sternly. 


86 


DICKS WANDERING. 


‘‘ Susan Bond would suit him exactly,” she said, de- 
murely ; “ Susan would like it.” Then she suddenly 
sat up straight and laughed. “ He ’s gone,” she said ; 

I know his parting glance. Now you may go, too. 
You ought to go and look after Ossie. He needs it a 
great deal more than I do : I am so glad you Ve come 
back, because now you can keep Ossie straight.” 

Betty had grown up in the belief tliat it was Dick’s 
business to look after Ossie. Ossie shared the belief ; 
and, moreover, he was fond of being looked after. He 
liked to get lots of good advice, and felt an additional 
pleasure in neglecting it. 

Good-night, Betty,” said Dick, gravely ; and don’t 
be too cruel. It never occurred to me before what mis 
chief girls might do.” 

She looked at him with a pathetic raising of the 
pretty eyebrows, but made no other answer ; she looked 
provokingly comfortable. 

When Dick found himself on the pavement with the 
first liglit of dawn about his head, he was aware of a 
strong and healthy inclination to go home and to bed. 
And yet he had no thought of yielding to this inclina- 
tion ; he must look after Ossie ; the mere sight of Ossie 
had been enough to double his old feeling of responsi- 
bility. When he reached the Club, he found it almost 
empty. The head waiter informed him that Mr. Lang- 
don had been there with Mr. Dolamore, and had gone 
away with the same gentleman. Then with a manner 
at once respectful and caressingly confidential, the waiter 
dropped his voice and informed Mr. Hartland that he 
rather thought that Mr. Langdon and Mr. Dolamore 
might be found at No. 17a in the next street. As Dick 
looked doubtful, his informant added, It is a club, sir, 


dick’s wandering. 87 

recently opened ; many of our gentlemen frequent it at 
present, sir ; they go, I understand, to play cards.” 

1^0. 17a had been recently a private house ; a short 
lease of it had been taken by some enterprising gentle- 
men, and it had been converted at once into a club, with 
few if any changes of internal arrangement, and with 
the readiest admission to all men who wished to risk 
their money. Young men in dress clothes were readily 
admitted in the small hours ; and Dick was told at once 
that he would find Mr. Langdon in the front room on 
the first floor. Dick disliked the look of the place. It 
was a private house run to seed. The hall was dingy, 
the banisters dusty ;• and over the marble mantelpiece 
was a great square patch of darker color, which had 
been lately covered by an equestrian portrait of a gen- 
eral long forgotten by an ungrateful country, and re- 
cently disposed of, frame and canvas and all. Through 
a door on the left Dick saw a plentiful cold supper laid 
out ; here and there was a dirty plate, which told of 
some solitary feaster ; there were pink shades over all 
the lights, and on the sideboard, amid a great array of 
bottles, stood a cheap copy of the Venus de’ Medici in 
alabaster. This statue seemed to be the only concession 
to artistic taste : it was clear that the youngest of clubs 
relied for its success on other and more dangerous attrac- 
tions. 

Dick did not linger amid the scant beauties of the 
ground-floor. lie ran up-stairs, and turning the gilt 
handle of the drawing-room door looked on a scene 
which was even less to his liking. Opposite to him old 
curtains of red velvet had been drawn across the two 
high windows by some careless hand, and through the 
gaps the early light stole faint and blue into the room, 


88 


dick’s wandering. 


and made the flames of the few candles strangely yel- 
low. Everything except the heavy furniture had been 
removed by the late occupants. Along one side of the 
room two long brass-bound cabinets stood side by side ; 
on them was nothing but dust, and in them nothing but 
dusty shelves. On the other side three sofas, which had 
once been gorgeous, were pushed against the wall ; and 
on these had been thrown great-coats, canes, silk scarves, 
and opera hats in elegant confusion. In the middle of 
the room were a couple of card-tables ; and around 
one of these tables men were standing, silent, intent 
upon the game. When Dick had taken a few steps into 
the room, he saw that the man facing him, the boy with 
the flushed face and tumbled hair, was Osbert Langdon. 

Presently the silence was broken ; the men about the 
table straightened themselves, and all began to talk at 
once. Ossie dropped his cards with a laugh, and, as he 
did so, saw his cousin. 

‘‘ I can’t go on any more,” he said ; “ here ’s my nurse 
come for me.” 

Somebody laughed ; all faces were turned to Dick, 
and Dolamore stepped forward politely and shook the 
new-comer by the hand. 

“ Have a drink ? ” asked Ossie, as the codsins were 
going down-stairs together. “ No ? Nor will I. I will 
go home to bed like a good boy.” 

Dick blew a strong breath, as they stepped into the 
street. “ What a fusty life ! ” he said. 

Is n’t it ? ” said Ossie ; it ’s beastly ; I hate it.” 
After a pause he added, “ I ’m clean broke, old man. I 
shall have to borrow a few hundreds from you. It ’s 
your fault ; the luck was just on the change, and I was 
in for a good thing, when in you came, and out went 


dick’s wandering. 


89 


luck. I shall be uncommonly glad when the season’s 
over; I’ll come and stay with you; I always feel good 
in the country ; when I ’m with your mother, I feel like 
an angel. She ’s an angel, Dick, your mother is. I 
should be awfully good if she was my mother.” 

Ossie’s voice had become more and more solemn ; but 
Dick showed no sign of being impressed. He strode 
along with his hands deep in the pockets of his light 
overcoat. He kept silence in spite of his cousin’s pa- 
thetic glances, till they reached the house, where Ossie 
lodged. Then, when the key was in the door, Dick 
said, “ Look here, Ossie ! If I lend you money, you 
must promise me to give up play. Will you promise ? ” 

Ossie left the key in the door, and turned round on 
the step. His hat on the back of his head had rather a 
rakish air ; but the corners of his mouth were drawn 
down with an expression sufficiently contrite. “ Dick, 
my dearie,” he said, and he laid his hands on his cous- 
in’s shoulders with the caressing manner of a child, 
‘‘Dickie, old man. I’ll promise anything you ask me. 
But you know, old chap, my promises ain’t worth much. 
I ’d just as soon not promise.” 

“ I ’ll lend you the money,” said Dick, “ and do try 
not to be such a fool.” 

“ I ’ll try,” said Ossie ; “ good-night, Dickie, and thank 
you. I ’m a poor creature ; that ’s the worst of it. 
Good-night ! ” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


Dick would have liked to celebrate his twenty-first 
birthday as quietly as the twenty which had gone be- 
fore ; but when he spoke on the subject with his mother, 
he saw at once that there were certain ceremonies con- 
nected with the coming of age of a Hartland, which she 
regarded with religious veneration. I had hoped,” 
she said, with a slight tremor in her voice, “ that every- 
thing would be as it was when your father ” — 

Then Dick made haste to interrupt her. “ It shall 
be exactly as you wish, mother,” he said : and after a 
minute he added more quietly, “ I only wish I was sure 
that it would always be as easy for me to do what you 
wish.” 

She gave him her hand without speaking. Presently 
it appeared that with a view to this important day in 
her son’s life she had treasured all the accounts of the 
festivities which had been celebrated in honor of his 
father. “ It seems so strange to think,” she said 
with a sad smile, “ that at that time I had not seen 
your father. I found these papers after we were mar- 
ried ; and I kept them for you.” After this Mrs. Hart- 
land indulged in no more reminiscences, but busied her- 
self with preparations, which were to do honor to her 
boy. She left London early in July that she might 
have plenty of time before the birthday, which was in 
the first week of August. 

Dick felt sorry that the season was drawing to a 


dick’s wandering. 


91 


close. lie had come to London so late that he had not 
had enough of the movement and brightness of this 
fantastic world. People seemed to him so much kinder 
and more natural than his occasional doses of cynical 
fiction had led him to expect. One day, when he was 
holding forth on this theme, he saw his cousin Ossie 
regarding him with the tender superiority of a friend 
who had lost his illusions. 

“ You old innocent,” said Ossie softly ; do you sup- 
pose these women don’t know the acreage of Glaring, 
and how much a year you will put in your pocket ? ” 
Pooh, pooh ! ” answered Dick loftily ; “ some of 
the kindest are people for whom I could n’t do anything, 
if I wanted to.” 

‘‘ But you are important, Dickie,” said the young 
man of the world ; “ you are somebody ; they like to 
know somebodies ; it ’s comfortable ; they like to have 
’em in their houses.” 

“ What right have you to talk this cynical stuff ? I 
am sure people are kind enough to you.” 

‘‘ So they are,” said Ossie with a sigh ; “ and I give 
’em nothing but anxiety.” 

However, in justice to Mr. Langdon it may be said 
that after the night of Lady Raeborough’s ball his con- 
duct for the rest of the season was distinguished by un- 
usual moderation. 

Dick almost forgot to look after his wayward cousin. 
With the din of London Society thundering in his ears 
and his memory busy with a thousand trifles, he gave 
himself to the pleasure of the fleeting moment, and 
went on his careless way with laughter and an open 
heart. Nevertheless he did find time for an interview 
with the family solicitor ; and for more than one inter- 


92 


dick’s wandering. 


view with a lawyer who was a personal friend of his 
own. There was one action, which is usually connected 
with the majority of a land-owner, about which the 
young squire had made up his mind once and forever. 
He had determined not to deprive himself of the power 
of doing with his property whatever might at any time 
seem good in his eyes. lie meant to keep his real es- 
tate in his own hands. 

And now the great day was approaching ; and the 
old house in Glaring Park was full of guests. There 
was Lady Raeborough, so quick with life and energy 
that it seemed as if she could begin another season on 
the morrow. She had come with her husband, her maid, 
her pug, and Mrs. Hurte Parkinson, who was to amuse 
the Earl, until it was time to carry him to Scotland. 
There was Hervie Langdon with his son and daughter ; 
Miss Susan Bond, who was invited as Betty’s dearest 
friend ; the great Mr. Kirby, but just freed for a time 
from the duties of critical opposition, and accompanied 
on this occasion by his silent little wife and that one of 
his daughters who was most like her mother. There 
were Lord Stanmere and John Torington, as friends of 
the hero of the occasion, and likely to amuse the girls ; 
and Fabian Deane, who would have come from the 
world’s end to do honor to his whilom pupil. These — 
with Mrs. Meryon, who would on no account be absent 
from her daughter Sophie at a time which could not 
but be eloquent of melancholy recollection, and a small 
detachment of distant relatives, who represented an- 
other branch of the Ilartland family — filled the old 
house from garrets to cellars so full that even the old 
Glaring ghost could scarce find room to walk. Every- 
body was happy in liis or her peculiar fashion. Every 


dick’s wandering. 


93 


body said how delightful it was to get into tlie country 
again ; that the weather could not be more favorable ; 
that it was impossible for anybody to come of age at a 
more convenient time. It seemed impossible that any- 
body in such a place and under such a sky could be un- 
happy. There was no room in so fair a world for any 
grief more tragical than the soothing melancholy which 
nourished the sympathetic heart of Mrs. Meryon. 

The second day had been chosen for the cricket 
match with the village. Dick had gone off after break- 
fast with the younger men to meet the rest of his eleven 
on the cricket-ground ; and, after an interval long 
enough to prove their independence, most of the ladies 
had followed them. Sophie Hartland, as she stood at 
the end of the terrace looking westward, could see be- 
yond the gentle hollow of the land the flag fluttering on 
the top of the wliite tent, and on the smooth-shaven 
green small figures in white flannel. She could see, 
moreover, or thought that she could see, which of the 
active youth was her own boy, for whom, when but a 
baby, his father had laid down that cricket-ground, and 
had boasted of the games which he and his boy would 
play together. Mrs. Hartland was so intent upon the 
distant scene, and so full of the thoughts which that 
scene aroused, that she did not hear the heavy tread be- 
hind her ; she started as Mr. Kirby spoke close to her 
ear. 

I am glad to find you alone,” he said. 

When she turned at the sound of his voice, there was 
the broad red face so close, that the little lady, obedient 
to an impulse of which the next moment she was 
ashamed, drew a little backward. Mr. Kirby threw the 
end of his cigar into a flower-bed. He was wholly un- 


94 


dick’s wandering. 


conscious of the dislike which he aroused in Mrs. Hart- 
land, whom he always extolled as “ a charming little 
woman ; ’’ while she, for her part, had a prodigious re- 
spect for the politician's practical sagacity. 

I want to talk to you about Dick,” Mr. Kirby be- 
gan. “ When are we to put him into Parliament ? ” 
Now this question was by no means unexpected. 
When Dick was a little boy his mother had decided that 
he was to have a political career. In later days, when 
her son was poring over political pamphlets or volumes 
of political economy, she had once or twice made a care- 
less remark, which was intended to invite confidence; 
but Dick had always treated the subject as a joke, and 
made serious discussion impossible by a declaration, one 
day, of communistic principles ; another, of his deter- 
mination to become Prime Minister. And so Mrs. 
Hartland had learned to refrain from all allusion to 
politics. She did not know what were Dick’s intentions ; 
and she was by no means content to be ignorant. So 
when Mr. Kirby trod heavily upon the subject, he 
aroused in her a tumult of feelings which, had he sus- 
pected it, would have filled him with amazement. She 
grew pale, and then red ; and she moved away to the 
garden-seat, which was close at hand, with a sudden 
feeling of the necessity of support. As the politician 
deposited his solid bulk beside her, she was rapidly de- 
bating whether she should tell him everything or noth- 
ing. He was the last man to whom she liked to confess 
that there was not perfect confidence between herself 
and her only son. On the other hand, she declared to 
herself that she must not sacrifice Dick’s career, which 
might depend so much on the help of this man of polit- 
ical sagacity and experience, to any foolish prejudice of 


dick’s wandering. 


95 


her own. She knew that people were always laughing 
at women as irrational creatures. It seemed that her 
own boy attached no value to her advice. Nevertheless, 
she would try to help him ; and thus she would prove 
to herself once more that she could prefer the sensible 
course to her merely feminine impulse. Mrs. Hartland 
need not have distressed herself. Her companion was 
more inclined to deliver his views than to listen to her 
confessions. He liked to sit in the sun ; and he liked to 
say what he had to say to an attentive listener and a 
charming little woman. He preserved an air of atten- 
tion while the lady, with a successful eJffort to appear 
calm, said that she could not answer for Dick — that he 
was deeply interested in political questions, but seemed 
somewhat unsettled. 

I rather think,” she said with a little laugh, that 
Dick has some highly revolutionary tendencies.” The 
little laugh had no natural sound ; but Mr. Kirby had 
no ear for delicate distinctions in laughter. 

Revolutionary, is he ? ” he said ; and he chuckled. 
‘‘ My dear lady, we like that. That ’s just what we look 
for in a young \m. It frightens the women ; and of 
course it’s all the dam’dest nonsense — I beg your par- 
don, but it is, you know — but it ’s tlie right thing at the 
right time of life. It ’s the rash young hin makes the 
good horseman. That ’s what my sporting friends tell 
me. Radicalism should be taken young like the measles 
— and first love — and things of that sort, eh ? ” Here 
the great man grew red with half-stifled laughter, being 
mightily pleased to find himself in so humorous a vein. 
“ The great thing is,” he continued with a more solemn 
air, ‘‘to get your Radicalism over early; to take it 
strong and get rid of it forever; to get it clean out of 
5 


96 


dick’s wandering. 


the blood. Look at old Burlingham ! lie took it too 
late in life ; and he has never got it out of his system. 
Every now and then he has a touch of it ; it spoils a 
Bill ; or it crops out unexpectedly in a speech, and en- 
rages a foreign power. Don’t you be frightened by Mr. 
Dick’s radical nonsense ; there ’s nothing to steady a 
man like such a bit of land as this.” He waved his 
heavy arm to the slope before them, the wood and the 
rich valley below ; but his companion’s eyes wandered 
away to the right, and rested somewhat wistfully on the 
distant cricket-ground. 

“ It ’s the thing for a young man to be revolutionary. 
You may believe me. We ’ve all been through that. 
Your boy is exactly what I was at his age.” 

A pang shot through the mother’s heart, and for a 
moment she turned her startled eyes on her companion. 
He thought that she could scarcely credit this great com- 
forting truth ; and so, flushed with kindliness, he repeated 
it with greater emphasis. “ I give you my word,” he 
said, as he laid a large red hand on hers with a protect- 
ing air ; I give you my word that he has reminded me 
again and again of what 1 was at his age.” 

Mrs. Hartland’s eyes had wandered back to the young 
figures scattered on the distant green. She was reas- 
sured. She felt a return of warmth. After all, things 
might be much worse. It was clearly impossible that 
Dick, that her husband’s son, should ever become like 
John Wilmading Kirby. 

“ You won’t mind my speaking to the boy ? ” asked 
IMr. Kirby, as the lady rose from her seat. 

“ Of course not,” she said, smiling. “ Besides,” she 
added with a little laugh, in which a keener ear might 
have discerned a pathetic sound, — “ what have I to say 
to it ? In a few days Dick will be his own master.” 


dick’s wandering. 


97 


Meanwhile this young man, about whose future many 
worthy people took thought at least sufficient, was him- 
self thinking of none of these things. Affairs public 
and private were alike absent from his mind. He was 
standing up in the sunlight, with the peak of his cap on 
the back of his neck, and slogging the village bowling 
with entire satisfaction. 

“ Did you ever see such energy ? ” asked Ossie wea- 
rily, as he lay in the shadow of the tent by the feet of 
Miss Susan Bond. 

“ You are not troubled with that complaint,” said the 
young lady, as she tapped him playfully on the head with 
her large parasol ; but Ossie only looked at her under 
his drooping lids with tender reproach. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


Dick was returning from the village in the highest 
spirits. He had been dining at the Old Bear with his 
tenants, the prosperous farmers who paid him rent. He 
declared that he had enjoyed himself immensely ; he had 
made a speech, which was received with laughter and 
applause ; his health had been drunk ; and he had left 
the feasters at a comparatively early hour, when wine 
had given place to spirits, and cigars and pipes were 
lighted. It was time that he should return to his other 
guests at the house. 

“ What jolly fellows they are ! ” he said to Fabian 
Deane, as they walked back together across the Park. 

“ Yes,” said Fabian ; ‘‘ they ’re jolly enough, when 
they are gorging and guzzling at your expense. I won- 
der if their laborers think them jolly fellows.” 

“ Good fellows they are,” said Dick, ‘‘ if you know 
liow to manage them ; and anybody can manage them ; 
they have got hearts, every one of them. They ’ll be 
generous enough, if you don’t bully them into gener- 
osity.” 

“ I hate ’em,” said Fabian briefly ; “ they are narrow 
and obstinate; they eat too much beef.” 

“ Narrow yourself ! ” said Dick, laughing ; you 
ought to have dined at home, as I advised you. Miss 
Susan is n’t narrow.” 

That ’s a clever girl,” cried Mr. Deane. “ By 
George, she is a clever girl ! ” he repeated fiercely, as if 
somebody had contradicted him. 


DICK'S WANDERING. 


99 


The dinner at Glaring had been less noisy than on 
the previous evenings. There were many complaints of 
tlieir young host’s absence. Even Stanmere had been 
rat'her quiet ; and Torington had hardly spoken a word. 
There was a certain uneasiness in the air. All the 
women felt that something was going to happen ; that 
a crisis was at hand in the world of sentiment. In the 
drawing-room the party became even less lively. Lord 
Raeborough showed unmistakable signs of the approach 
of boredom ; he fidgeted, and looked again and again at 
his wife with eyes heavy and reproachful. 

Nelly, my dear,” said Lady Raeborough to Mrs. 
Hurte Parkinson, “do go and amuse Davenant. He 
has got on new shoes, and you have n’t noticed them.” 
So little Mrs. Parkinson crossed the room with her fine 
eyes fixed on Lord Raeborough’s shining feet, and asked 
him how such a big man could walk on them ; and she 
sat by him, till he smiled unwillingly ; and then she 
tripped to the piano and sang the last new song from 
Italy, which expressed in the conditional mood the pas- 
sionate desire of the composer to weep because the 
grass was wet with dew, and to die because the violets 
bloomed. The rest of the party played a card-game, 
but without much pleasure; and nobody was amused 
except himself by Stanmere’s facetious cheating. Mrs. 
Hartland felt that her guests were not gay, and began 
to wonder what women of the world did to make their 
parties go o£E well ; she was vexed with lier mother for 
sitting close beside her, and growing more and more 
peacefully happy as the social barometer fell. 

Into the midst of the party thus irrationally dull Dick 
came as a new excitement, with Fabian at his heels. 
“ What on earth are you staying in the house for ? ” he 


100 


dick’s wandering. 


asked as he entered the room. Do you know that it ’s 
the loveliest night of the year, with a moon shining like 
— like anything ? ” 

Everybody jumped up ; Stanmere threw the cards 
up to the ceiling ; half the people began to question the 
new-comers about the dinner and the farmers. 

“ Oh, may we go out, dear Mrs. Hartland ? ” asked 
Miss Bond, with the pretty deferential manner which 
she never forgot to use for the benefit of her gentle 
hostess. 

‘‘ Go out ? Of course,” cried Dick, who was just 
telling his mother that he had had a great success at 
his dinner. “ Come along, Ossie, and get cloaks and 
tilings.” Dick was back in a minute with his arms full 
of shawls and divers wraps. As he came in, he passed 
a cloak to Torington with a smile ; it was Betty’s cloak. 
Torington knew it well ; but yet he raised his eyebrows 
as one who would ask a question, and looked round as 
if to see who claimed the garment. This tall handsome 
young man looked pale, and almost haggard. lie had 
slept ill of late. He was in a condition absurdly sen- 
sitive. He could not bear to speak to anybody of his 
hopes and fears ; and yet he knew every other moment 
that nobody would be blind to his distress. A neat, 
careful, and successful cricketer, he had distinguished 
himself the day before by making some wild hits off the 
best village bowling, and succumbing ignominiously to 
one of the slowest of the second gardener’s slow half- 
volleys. It could not be concealed from the eyes of the 
old professional, who umpired, that something had gone 
wrong with this young gentleman. Truly he was in a 
parlous state. ‘‘ This is yours, I think ? ” he said to 
Miss Langdon after a moment’s elaborate indecision. 


dick’s wandering. 


101 


Thanks,” she said ; ‘‘ that ’s too warm ; ” and she 
placked a light shawl from under Dick’s arm, and so, 
with a firm hold of Susan Bond, vanished through the 
window. 

Not without your duenna ! ” cried Mrs. Hurte Par- 
kinson, and she rapped Ossie playfully on the shoulder 
as she followed the girls. 

‘‘ Come on,” said Dick to Torington. 

‘‘ No, thanks,” said he, with a voice unnaturally lan- 
guid ; ‘‘ I have got hold of a book that is awfully inter- 
esting.” 

Perhaps Dick would have expressed some surprise at 
this new taste for literature, but at that moment Stan- 
mere, clad in a long light ulster, rushed through the 
room, and swept his host before him out of the window. 
Betty was standing alone on the terrace ; the moonlight 
softened and refined her extraordinary loveliness ; Stan- 
mere stopped short, and expressed his admiration by a 
whistle. 

“ Lord Stanmere,” cried Mrs. Parkinson from the end 
of the terrace on the left, come here directly, and help 
me to keep Mr. Osbert in order.” 

Coming ! ” said he, and with a profound bow to 
Betty he trotted away. 

Miss Bond had carried off Mr. Deane, whom she had 
on that very day declared by letter to be the most inter- 
esting man that she had ever seen, so clever, so unlike 
the general run of young men in Society. Something 
to the same effect she had already hinted to the man 
himself. Indeed, it must be confessed that she was given 
to telling the man of the moment, even if he were a 
young man in Society, that he was so different from 
other young men. It was easily said, and it had an 


102 


dick’s wandering. 


extraordinary effect upon her popularity. Fabian waa 
very happy. It was a delightful change from the intol- 
erant and beef-eating farmer to moonlight and good 
manners. He liked people who saw at a glance that he 
was not like other people. It was clear that Miss Bond 
thought him interesting ; and it seemed to him that 
there must be something great in a girl, who had seen 
BO many people in more than two or three seasons, and 
who was yet so ready for new ideas, so quick to feel in- 
terest in any one who was interesting. “ Ila ! is n’t she 
like Gretchen ? ” he cried, looking back to the terrace, 
where Betty was standing with the moonlight soft about 
her. 

“Who is to be Faust?” asked his companion quickly; 
“ ah ! yes ; is n’t that Mr. Ilartland who has just joined 
her ? ” 

“ Dick ? My sometime pupil ? If my pupil be Faust, 
what in the name of all that is terrible am I ? ” 

“ You must be the — but no ! politeness forbids me to 
Bay.” 

“ The same power forbids me to compare you with 
Martha.” 

Miss Bond had a pleasant laugh ; and she laughed 
pleasantly, as she said, “You are much too literary.” 
After a pause she added, “Do you think it will be 
Dick — Mr. Hartland, I suppose I ought to say ? ” 

“ Do I think what will be Dick ? ” 

Miss Bond laughed again, but she only answered by 
nodding her head three times toward the cousins. “ Let 
us go on a little,” she said ; “ old Martha is afraid of 
chills.” 

Betty stood motionless in the moonlight, till Dick 
came to her. Then she turned slowly, and walked by 
his side in silence. 


dick’s wandering. 


103 


“ Betty,” he said suddenly, you are being very 
naughty.” She answered nothing, but sighed ; and Dick 
felt that it was hard to scold her seriously. “ Poor old 
Torington!” he said; ‘^you are treating him awfully 
badly. He ’s worn to a shadow.” 

At this she laughed, and her low laughter was so 
pleasant that he could not help laughing too. After all, 
it was not unpleasant to be privileged to scold this 
fascinating cousin. Then she grew serious again, and 
laid her hand trustfully in his arm. 

“ Why should one marry anybody ? ” she asked. 

“ Why indeed ? ” asked Dick in return and with some 
contempt. “ However,” he added in a moment, you 
won^t be long without a husband.” 

‘‘ Why not ? ” she asked innocently ; but, as Dick only 
gave a short laugh for answer, she said presently, “ I 
think you are the strangest man I ever knew.” 

u Why ? » 

Don’t you think it ’s funny of you to be lecturing 
me about another young man ? ” 

Not at all,” said Dick with decision. ‘‘ If I have n’t 
a right to tell you when you are behaving badly, I don’t 
know who has.” 

She laughed a little under her breath. It is so hard 
io know what sort of man to marry.” 

A girl should marry the man she loves,” said Dick, 
as if it were the simplest thing in the world. 

‘‘ Susan says that the nicest men don’t marry ; and 
that they won’t take any notice of us till we marry other 
people.” 

Bah ! ” said Dick : pleasant for the other people ! 
It seems to me that Miss Bond is not a good friend for 
vou.” 


lOi 


DICK'S WANDERING. 


“ Susan ’s the nicest girl in the world,” said Betty 
calmly ; ‘‘but she ’s awfully clever ; she understands 
life.” 

“ The one plain question for you is whether you like 
John Torington enough.” 

“ How can I tell ? ” asked she gently. “ You know 
you once told me that I ought to think of him ; and 
when I do think of him, I think that I ain’t fit to be a 
poor man’s wife.” 

“ A poor man ! ” 

“ O Dick,” she said, “ you don’t know anything. His 
wife can’t possibly have much to spend ; and she ’ll have 
to live a great deal in the country. I do get so bored in 
the country ! ” 

“ That ’s thinking of him, I suppose,” said Dick. “ If 
you cared for him in the right way, I suppose you would 
be willing to live anywhere with him.” He spoke with 
less than his usual certainty. 

“Not anywhere,” she said, — “not in the Regent’s 
Park, for instance.” 

“ You don’t care for him,” said Dick, as if he would 
put an end to the matter. 

“ But I do care for him,” she said ; “ only — only I 
am so afraid he would n’t be amusing.” 

Dick gave a short, contemptuous laugh. “ If you feel 
like that,” he said, “ don’t marry him.” 

Miss Langdon stopped, and stood still with her hand 
still resting on his arm. “ That ’s your advice, — really 
and truly ? ” she asked softly. 

“ Yes,” he answered ; “ it ’s kinder to him to let him 
alone, and to let him know the worst.” He was sorry 
for the poor youth, and yet half contemptuous of him for 
allowing himself to be brought to such a woeful state by 


dick’s wandering. 


105 


one of these pretty creatures. These pretty creatures 
seemed to him like birds of gay plumage in the sun, as 
simply eager for admiration, almost as helpless. He felt 
a strong impulse to take exclusive charge of this sweet 
child, and to vanquish Miss Bond, whom he regarded at 
the moment as the personification of evil influence. He 
would be his cousin’s good angel ; till on some future 
day he could find for her some husband, whom she could 
both love and respect, and who would be strong enough 
to rule her through her respect and love. She was still 
standing by his side in silence, as if she awaited further 
instruction. He looked down on her with unusual ten- 
derness ; and her eyes raised to his in the shadows 
seemed very innocent and pathetic. 

‘‘ I always like to do what you wish,” she said softly. 

He was still looking at her ; and he forgot to speak 
for a minute. He felt sure that he had given her the 
best advice ; it was certain that she did n’t care enough 
for Torington. He began to think that she must have 
suffered much from her doubts, and from her swain’s 
attentions. It might almost be said that Torington had 
persecuted the poor child. “ Poor Betty ! ” he said in 
a low voice, and he laid his hand on hers in a protecting 
manner ; Poor — ah Fabian ! Miss Bond ! where did 
you spring from ? ” 

I wonder you did n’t see us coming,” said Susan. 
‘‘Mr. Deane has been doing Mephistopheles for ray 
amusement ; it ’s capital.” 


CHAPTER XV. 


Dick was out of doors next day before any of the 
guests were stirring. He bad something pleasant to say 
to Mrs. Emmens, the wife of his old friend, the cobbler ; 
and, as he stepped across the park and met the fresh 
beauty of the morning, he felt that he was giving him- 
self a treat. He ran across the short grass, because he 
was too happy to walk, and vaulted the gate for very 
lightness of heart. Close to this gate lies the village — 
the least formal of villages. Cottages are scattered 
along the country road ; and even at the very centre of 
the place, where the Old Bear Inn stands with good 
elbow-room at the crossing of the ways, with its vener- 
able sign planted far before it, — even there the fields 
push in between the houses, and the hens walk out into 
the dust, which is stirred by few wheels between sunrise 
and sundown. The village of Claring has a comfortable 
air. Here and there is a small house of red brick, with 
a warm little yard beside it, and a lean-to for the corn ; 
and in one place an old wooden barn stands with one 
corner in the street, and an air of sublime indifference 
and repose. Besides, though scarcely two of the labor- 
ers’ cottages are alike, they are all alike in one point. 
They are all weather-tight and wholesome, for they had 
belonged for generations to the generous people of Clar- 
ing Park ; and to see that they were kept in perfect 
repair had been regarded as one of her chief duties by 
the good little Lady Bountiful, who had gone up and 


dick’s wandering. 


107 


down for years past with kindness in her heart, and a 
passion for order. Very little business was transacted 
in this model village ; for the thriving town of Redgate, 
with its politics and its paper, was less than two miles 
distant ; and Redgate was ever eager to provide the 
country round with its own beef and mutton, with Lon- 
don soap and candles, even with old furniture for the 
ladies and old English china, and the very last novelty 
in aerated waters. 

Even Nicholas Emmens, who made and mended the 
iron-bound boots of the laborers, and now and then did 
a piece of neater work for a farmer’s wife, or a servant- 
girl at the House, would have found time heavy on his 
hands but for his interest in social matters, and in his 
patch of garden. Dick found the cobbler sitting in his 
low window for the sake of light, and stitching grimly. 
Nicholas was a little hurt by the young squire’s delay 
in visiting him ; he was too ready to see neglect in 
those who might think themselves his superiors on ac- 
count of the accident of birth ; there was much defi- 
ance in this silent man. He bowed to his visitor without 
speaking, and he did not lay aside the boot which he 
was patching. 

Dick greeted his friend without embarrassment, and 
asked after his health, and his children, and his wife. 
“ And I want to see Mrs. Emmens,” he said ; ‘‘ where 
is she ? Is she busy ? ” 

“ Ain’t she always busy ? ” asked her pale husband 
with his repressed smile. 

“ She ’s a thundering good woman,” said Dick ; “ and 
you ought to be grateful for her.” 

You needn ’t fear to say that she is a good woman,” 
said the other slowly. ‘‘ Perhaps there ain’t many of 


108 


dick’s wandering. 


your fine ladies that would work as she works ; with 
the house ; and the cooking ; and all the children ; and 
she always cheerful, and good-tempered, and clean, and 
neat.” 

“ She ’s all that,” said the young squire ; “ where is 
she ? ” 

Mr. Emmens did not move, but he lifted up a voice, 
which was not very melodious, and called, “ Caroline ! 
Caroline ! ” 

Mrs. Emmens came from the other little room at the 
back ; and as the door, through which she came, gave a 
glimpse of wooden tubs, it was likely that this was to be 
a washing-day. She came in rubbing her hand on her 
coarse apron, and smiling at the sight of young Mr. 
Ilartland, which, as she sometimes said, did her a deal 
more good than the parson any day, though the parson 
was a civil, well-meaning gentleman enough. Dick shook 
her warmly by the hand, and asked after all the children 
by name, — a feat which filled their mother with admi- 
ration of his cleverness. Then he complimented her on 
the wonderful neatness of the room, in which he could 
but just stand upright; on the cleanliness of the red 
brick floor with its loose piece of coarse drugget ; on the 
polish of the old deal dresser, whereon the crockery was 
arranged in nice order. 

And now show me the garden,” he said, “ and let 
me see if your husband keeps it as he used to.” 

‘‘ That he does,” said she ; and she looked proudly at 
Nicholas, who would look as if he did not hear their 
idle talk. 

“ Do you think I might make your husband a pres- 
ent ? ” asked Dick, as he stood by Mrs. Emmens, and 
looked with admiration at the little piece of earth, which 
seemed to have been cultivated inch by inch. 


dick’s wandering. 


109 


She did not answer for a minute or two. In spite of 
her great reverence for her husband, she had her full 
share of that sense of responsibility for him, which all 
good women of her class feel for their lords. The be- 
lief in the weakness of man had been born in her ; and 
after many years of married life she was still surprised 
at her husband’s steadiness, and gave thanks daily that 
he was not like other women’s husbands. She was 
dimly conscious of a revolutionary element in him, 
which might rouse him some day to fierce rebellion 
against their narrow life. In a cramped life the woman 
is almost always safer and better than the man ; she ac- 
quires more easily a love of routine for its own sake ; 
in most cases she has less imagination. Mrs. Einmens 
was duly cautious ; she was distrustful of gifts for her 
husband, whoever the giver. 

I have learned a good deal from your husband in 
various ways,” said Dick. 

Learned from him ! Have you, now ? ” asked Mrs. 
Emmens. “ Well, I don’t wonder at it. There ’s a 
many might learn from him in my opinion.” 

Well,” said Dick, “ I have seen a lot of what they 
call spade-labor ; but I have never seen a little bit of 
this old world kept so beautifully as your husband keeps 
this ; and I mean to make him a free present of it.” 

The woman looked up and down, and laid her hand 
on the stuff bosom of her gown as if her breath were 
failing. And pay no rent ! ” she said with a gasp. It 
was hard to conceive such a position. It seemed as if 
there must be something dangerous, or wrong about it. 
She was shocked. “ Here, come along, and speak to 
him,” she said. 

Don’t look as if you were dragging me before a 


no 


dick’s wandering. 


magistrate,” said Dick, as she led him back through the 
wash-house ; ‘‘I don’t mean any harm.” 

“ Now you tell him,” said the woman, and she moved 
a little to one side ; she put the corner of her apron in 
her mouth and bit it hard, that she might resist the 
temptation to speak. 

“ I ’ve been telling your wife,” said Dick, ‘‘ that I 
want to make you a present of your cottage and garden.” 

Nicholas put down his boot. There was a faint flush 
in his pale cheek : otherwise he showed no extraordi- 
nary emotion. Naturally his first attitude was defensive. 

And what am I to do for this ? ” he asked. 

“ Nothing,” said Dick, with a little impatience in his 
tone ; “ I want to give it you, because I please — and 
because you take such care of that garden, that you 
ought to have it.” 

And it won’t bind me in any way ? ” 

No.” 

‘‘ Not to go round canvassing among the working- 
men, and such like — at election times ? ” 

‘‘ Do you think I ’d bribe you ? ” 

“ You must excuse me, sir,” said Nicholas Emmens ; 
‘‘ but it does seem unaccountable ; and politics does do 
strange things with you gentlemen ; and — but there — 
I ’ve never thought ill of you ; and if you mean this, 
and if you abide by your meaning, why, I ” — 

He stopped short in his speech, and Dick saw that 
he was shaking. 

“ There ’s nothing simpler in the world,” said Dick, 
who felt bound to say something ; “ you see you are dif- 
ferent to all my other cottage tenants, because they are 
all laborers ; so there will be no jealousy. As for the 
thing, it is n’t worth thanking me for ; it ’s a mere noth- 


dick’s wandering. 


Ill 


ing to me. So it ’s all settled — and good-by.” He 
took the man’s hand, which was still trembling. Nich- 
olas was looking away through the back-room and the 
low doorway to where this little piece of bountiful earth 
lay warm in sunlight. ‘‘I can’t thank you,” he said 
presently. I ’m just hungry for it. I ’m just hungry 
to call it mine.” 

Mrs. Emmens had taken the corner of her rough 
apron from her mouth and applied it furtively to her 
eyes. ‘‘ God bless you, sir,” she said. 

Dick was ashamed of so much gratitude. He pressed 
her hand, which was roughened by much work. “ Good- 
by,” he said hurriedly ; good-by, Nicholas ; I ’m glad 
it ’s settled ; ” and he escaped into the road. As he 
hurried home, his mind was full of the good woman 
whom he had left. He recalled her look, when he told 
her of his intention, a look almost of horror. He could 
still see her standing there in her stuff gown, which 
stood out all round from the pleats about her waist, with 
her hair almost unnaturally smooth, with her mouth 
opened wide with wonder. ‘‘ It ’s better to be good than 
pretty,” cried Dick aloud ; and then he laughed ; and 
then he thought of his cousin Betty, and laughed again 

As Dick stepped lightly across the park, he was pres- 
ently aware of a stolid figure bearing down upon him, 
and then of a big voice hailing him in a lofty but friendly 
manner. He recognized the form as that of Mr. Kirby, 
and the manner was the same as that with which this 
prominent politician was wont to cry, Question, ques- 
tion ! ” in the House of Commons. 

Mr. Kirby did not hurry ; and yet, when he joined 
his young friend he was red in the face, and he took the 
big cigar from his lips and breathed heavily once or 


112 


dick’s wandering. 


twice, before he spoke. When he did speak, he lost no 
time in coming to the point. ‘‘ When are you going to 
join us in the House ? ” he asked, and laid a large hand 
kindly on his young kinsman’s shoulder. 

“ There ’s plenty of time to think of that,” said Dick, 
after a minute. 

“ You can’t begin too early,” said Mr. Kirby, giving 
the shoulder which he held a slight shake for emphasis : 
“ the sooner you begin to learn the game, the better.” 

What does one learn ? ” As the politician was not 
ready with an immediate answer, Dick laughed and 
added, “ If you step down to the village, and ask Nich- 
olas Emmens, he ’ll tell you that one learns to say what 
one don’t think, and to vote as one ’s bid.” 

And who the blank is Nichdlas — what ? ” 

“ Emmens. Don’t you know Nicholas Emmens ? 
You shall. He ’s a wonderful clever fellow ; he ’s the 
village cobbler ; he ’s a tremendous politician. He ought 
to be in the House, if you like.” 

“ Never mind Mr. — what ’s his name ? — Hemmings. 
You are quite right to cultivate that sort of people. But 
just now I want to talk about you. Of course you mean 
to go into Parliament, and ” — 

I don’t know that,” said Dick. ‘‘ Is n’t it getting 
to be rather a bear-garden ? ” 

And,” continued Mr. Kirby, pa^dng no attention to 
the interruption, “ it ’s a game that should be learned 
young, like other games. You ’ve got to keep the game 
going. The other side send the ball over, and you put 
it back in the most awkward corner.” 

The politician was rather pleased with this illustra- 
tion ; he put his cigar back in his mouth, while he 
paused to consider it. 


DICK'S WANDERING. 


113 


“That’s doing your duty to your country, is it?” 
asked Dick, innocently. 

“ That ’s the thing to do,” said Mr. Kirby, slowly. 

“ But suppose,” said Dick, “ you know that the other 
side are right ? ” 

“ They never are right,” said Mr. Kirby, with a wink 
and a chuckle. He turned towards the house, and the 
young squire walked by his side. 

“ Do you believe in manhood suffrage ? ” asked Dick, 
presently. 

“ Eh ? What ? ” asked the politician, who did not 
often attend to the questions of outsiders ; perhaps he 
tacitly expected previous notice. “ Eh ? What ? ” he 
asked ; “ manhood suffrage ? eh ? Oh, yes, that ’s all 
right. The bulk of them will vote the right way.” 

“ You mean they ’ll vote your way,” said Dick. Find- 
ing that this remark was ignored, he added, “ Don’t you 
think that there are too many voters already who don’t 
care the chuck of a copper which way they vote ? Ain’t 
these indifferent voters the chief cause of bribery, the 
puppets of the wire-pullers ? ” 

“ Our machinery is all right,” said the older man ; 
“ I ’ve been looking into that myself. We shall be 
ready to work the machine in every village in England.” 

Dick whistled doubtfully. “ Well,” he said, after a 
minute, “ I don’t think I believe that all men are equal ; 
or that all men have a right to vote ; or that all men 
are anything. Most men are exceptions, I think. I 
would n’t give a man a vote until I knew he was eager 
to have it, and not to have it to sell.” 

“ So far as I follow you, my dear boy,” said the poli- 
tician, pettishly, “ you seem to be talking the dam’dest 
doctrinaire nonsense.” 


114 


dick’s wandering. 


“ Not a bit,” said Dick, stoutly ; it ’s all this talk 
about Liberty and Equality that ’s doctrinaire ; at least 
if I know what the word means. This divine right to 
vote, and to sell your vote for a go of gin, seems to me 
frothy French stuff. I Ve tried to believe in it, but I 
can’t.” 

J ust you listen to me,” said Mr. Kirby, stopping, 
and again grasping his young friend’s shoulder. “ I ’ll 
say this to you. Of course I could n’t say it from my 
place in the House ; but I ’ll say it to you. The thing 
has got to come ; and if any young fellow sets himself 
against it, it ’ll do for him. Manhood suffrage has got 
to come.” 

So has death,” said Dick, gayly ; “ but that ’s no 
reason why you should help it on.” 

Mr. Kirby regarded his young kinsman with a frown. 
Then he resumed his progress with due gravity. He 
felt that his momentous confidence had been received 
with improper flippancy. Dick, on his side, felt con- 
trite ; he told himself that it was really very good of 
this great man to take such pains with his political ed- 
ucation. Dick was rather pleased to think that Mr. 
Kirby, who now wore a very thoughtful air, was ponder- 
ing deeply the best means by which his self-willed kins- 
man might be brought into the proper frame of mind. 
He did not know that the politician’s thoughts had al- 
ready wandered from him ; that he was thinking of his 
own digestion, and considering the chances of roast 
chicken for luncheon. 

There was a roast chicken for luncheon and Mr. Kirby 
was fortunate enough to secure his favorite wing. The 
frown had vanished from his brow, as he followed his 
hostess from the dining-room to the hall. 


dick’s wandering. 


115 


In the hall Mrs. Hartland paused. “ Did you speak 
to Dick ? ” she asked ; she was careful not to seem anx- 
ious. 

Speak to Dick ? ” said he ; “ eh ? oh ! yes. I spoke 
to the boy. I pumped him ; pumped him dry. He told 
me everything. We ’ll make something of the lad, my 
dear lady. He ’s very young ; but we ’ll make some- 
thing of him.” He chuckled again, and coughed. He 
thought it a most comfortable house to stay in. 


CHAPTER XVL 


Sophie Hartland could spare but a momeut for 
talk about her boy. She felt that she had a thousand 
things to do before the evening ; for in the evening 
there was to be the great ball, and neighbors were com- 
ing from all that side of the country. It was a time of 
confusion in the old house. Already the drawing-rooms 
and the library had been cleared for action. Now, when 
luncheon was over, the dining-room table was being re- 
moved in fragments to make way for many little supper 
tables. Mrs. Hartland felt that she must keep an eye 
on everything. She was happy when busy, and happy 
too because for a time she could dismiss her guests from 
her mind with a clear conscience. She had refused all 
offers of help, and was at last left alone. Lady Raebor- 
ough had sent her lord to drive Mrs. Hurte Parkinson 
in the phaeton ; and she herself, with great good-humor, 
had gone for a walk with that admirable little housewife, 
but silent companion, Mrs. Kirby. The young people 
had drifted out of the disturbed house to the ^hade of 
the big trees on the lawn ; and Mrs. Meryon, after re- 
calling for her daughter’s sake some of her old acquaint- 
ance who would have enjoyed a dance so much, had 
they only been alive, had gone to her own room with 
the intention of writing letters, and was there sleeping 
like a child. So Mrs. Hartland, when she had ordered 
Hervie Langdon to keep Mr. Kirby in the billiard-room, 
was happy in a clear ground, and gave herself to the 
task of minute supervision. 


dick’s wandering. 


117 


Betty and Ossie exhibited an infantine delight in the 
state of affairs. The disorder inspired them ; and when 
the general irregularity culminated in a dinner in the 
servants^ hall, their spirits were ready to overleap all 
bounds. Moreover, space had been found in the old 
house for a few more men, who would be useful at the 
ball ; and among these was Harold Dolamore, who had 
a talent for amusing this young brother and sister. 

The ball was a complete success. Mrs. Hartland was 
condemned to hear a thousand praises of the beauty of 
the rooms, the excellence of the floor, the success of all 
her arrangements. They praised her for everything, in- 
cluding the cloudless sky and the soft moonlight ; she 
almost felt herself responsible for the lavish beauty of 
the night. Indeed, as young people heated with the joy 
of dancing strolled through the open windows on to the 
wide terrace, it was but natural that they should feel a 
desire to express gratitude. It is likely that their jokes 
were trivial enough, but lovely was the low laughter in 
the moonlight ; and some of many mean thoughcs and 
base ambitions were rebuked by the still beauty of the 
world, or forgotten in the wonder of the time. There 
were young men and maidens, and the night was very 
fair. Hervie Langdon, standing in one of the windows 
with his hands in his pockets, found himself thinking 
such thoughts as these, and burst out laughing at him- 
self. Thus effectually aroused, he looked about for his 
own boy and girl ; and while he was looking for them, 
he ran against Dick. Dick told him that he had not 
seen Betty for at least an hour, and that Ossie was be- 
having very badly. “ He has n’t danced with a single 
neighbor,” he said ; he ’s been trotting about all the 
evening with Miss Bond.” 


118 


dick’s wandering. 


Mr. Langdon put out a hand to detain liis nephew 
That ’s delicious,” he said ; ‘‘ that ’s Betty’s doing. 
She told me this morning, with the most delightful grav- 
ity, that at her request Susan Bond, who it seems is a 
wonderfully clever girl, had promised to take Ossie in 
hand, and to keep him out of mischief. Now the joke is 
that that girl is very fond — what they call deeply at- 
tached — to my ridiculous boy.” 

Attached to Ossie ! It ’s impossible.” 

“ Impossible, but true,” said Hervie Langdon. 

Dick could not stop to argue the matter. He had 
been devoting himself without a moment’s rest to his 
duties as host ; and he was now in search of a distin- 
guished dowager, who would never forgive the House 
of Glaring if she did not have an early chance at the 
supper. 

When the ball was drawing to an end, when carriages 
were rolling away, when the pale light of dawn was 
creeping across the lawn and shining faintly blue on the 
conservatory at the eastern end of the long drawing- 
room, Dick, who at last found time to rest from his 
labors, paused for a minute among the hothouse flowers, 
and looked into the room, where a few couples were 
still dancing zealously. Miss Betty was floating round 
in the arms of John Torington, who danced well. When 
they stopped, he stood looking down at her with his dark 
eyes ; but she looked only on the floor, smiling a little, 
and opening and shutting her fan. Dick felt sorry for 
Torington. As he turned away, he saw that Stan me 1*0 
and Dolamore were standing on the other side of a 
young palm-tree, and were also staring into the room 
“ Is it to be a match ?” asked Stanmere. 

“ I wonder,” said Dolamore. 


dick’s wandering. 119 

I hope so,” said the first speaker ; “ the dear old 
chap is awfully far gone.” 

“ The lady is very apt to find people damned bores,” 
said Dolamore, in his smooth, careful manner; “and 
poor dear old Tory ” — 

Dick moved away ; there was something in Dola 
more’s tone which vexed him. He knew that it was 
absurd to be vexed by this man, who was without doubt 
a good enough fellow in his way. As for the chances 
of John Torington and Betty Langdon being happy to- 
gether, he knew that he need not trouble himself about 
that matter. She could venture to be kind to the poor 
youth on this evening, because her mind was at last 
made up. What could be more natural? Probably 
she had told him that it could never be. Certainly he 
looked dismal enough. And now the band, of which 
the thriving town of Redgate was justly proud, could 
play no more. The last guests were driven away in the 
morning light. The ladies who were at home went 
blinking up-stairs ; and silence and sleep settled on the 
house. 

The morning after the ball was sacred to repose. 
Breakfast went up to some people on little trays ; others 
came down to breakfast at irregular intervals. They 
seemed to take but a languid interest in each other.; and 
they scarcely noticed the absence of their hostess and 
their young host. Mrs. Hartland was engaged in con- 
fidential talk with the housekeeper ; and Dick was rid- 
ing about the property with his agent. It was Saturday, 
and on that evening the festivities would be finished. A 
dinner was to be given to the laborers in a large tent, 
which was being erected in the park ; after the dinner 
the park was to be open to the village ; the Redgate 
0 


120 


dick’s wandering. 


band would return, after a day’s rest ; there would be 
dancing on the green, lights in the trees, and fireworks 
in the distance. Most of the young people, who were 
staying in the house, had appeared before noon ; and as 
the day was hot, they gathered by degrees under the 
biggest tree on the lawn. Miss Langdon seemed sleepy 
but contented. She sat in the most comfortable of the 
straw-chairs, where she could listen at her ease, and 
smile without fatigue. She exerted herself so far as to 
keep in idlest motion a large straw-fan ; and, as she 
fanned herself, she allowed her eyes to travel far away 
beyond the green turf, which sloped downward to the 
climbing wood; and beyond the wood to the valley, 
which, lying far below and stretching away into the dis- 
tance, was crossed by little lines of hedgerow, rich with 
full rounded trees, and full that day, as a long shallow 
vase wdth wdne, of unaccustomed sunlight. On her right 
was the wide park, with its soft hollow’s and long level 
spaces, its great trees here and there, its cricket-ground in 
the distance, and its coverts beyond the cricket-ground. 
On her left was the smooth-shaven lawn, and the famous 
avenue, which led to the chief entrance. 

Betty did not talk about scenery ; but though she 
had never troubled herself wnth the comparison, it may 
be said for her that she preferred the beautiful to the 
sublime. A landscape full of warmth and richness and 
repose was very pleasant to her. Her eyes were half 
closed ; the fatigues of the evening before had only 
given a new charm to her beauty ; sitting in the shade 
she looked out lazily and basked in the broad sunlight. 
Her pleasure was not diminished by the fact that Stan- 
mere and Fabian Deane were both looking at her. The 
latter was smokitig cigarettes fiercely, and flying through 


dick’s- wandering. 


121 


all ages of literature to snatch fantastic comparisons for 
this lovelj creature. Though he reclined in his chair, a 
model of repose, his mind was abnormally busy with 
this fascinating task, and so absorbed, that he heeded not 
a word of the talk of Stan mere, who in a mood of grav- 
ity due to much dancing was giving him his views of 
life. 

Ossie was sublimely happy. Lying at the little slip- 
pers of Mrs. Hurte Parkinson, he watched the eyes of 
that lively lady ; and Miss Susan Bond watched him. 
Mrs. Parkinson threw him fragments of talk, while her 
large eyes now rested on him, now wandered to other 
youth. However agreeable the man with whom she 
was talking, she almost always had the air of expecting 
another man. She only half-listened to compliments, 
but rewarded them with quick glances. If her ear was 
attentive to the coming man, she had a peculiar light 
laugh, which was fascinating in itself, and was an an- 
swer good enough for the man at her elbow. It was 
only when she had a definite part to play, — when there 
was some person whom for social reasons it was neces- 
sary to charm, — that Nelly Parkinson was able to con- 
centrate her attention. For the most part she felt her- 
self the pretty centre of men’s eyes ; and she plumed 
herself with birdlike movements of the head, and with 
restless glances which took toll from the spectators, as 
the organ-grinder collects the smallest change. She 
liked Ossie ; and he was so conveniently boyish that she 
could treat him as a petted child without fear of the 
censorious. Miss Bond, who was clever, watched the 
two pretty creatures, as a collector with a card-board 
box and camphor in his pocket might smile on two light 
butterflies hovering and pausing in the sun. If she 


122 


dick’s wandering. 


wanted to secure one of the butterflies, she had good 
store of practical proverbs ; she knew that everything 
comes to those who know how to wait. She amused 
Mr. Osbert Langdon without effort; she took great 
pains never to bore him. 

If the group under the wide shade was a picture of 
repose ; if the sole disquiet was in the wandering eyes 
of Mrs. Hurte Parkinson ; yet there was one who came 
and went unresting, one who was restlessness from head 
to heel. John Torington was in a pitiful state. He 
was an honest youth ; yet he was acting, and knew it. 
He was proud ; yet he was laying himself open to the 
pity of all these people. It was but too likely that his 
own servant, when he brought his hot water in the 
morning, offered him pity therewith ; he was always a 
considerate master. He was naturally reserved ; yet he 
could not tear himself from these young folk under the 
tree. He came to them again and again ; he talked 
twice as much as usual ; he was strangely epigrammatic, 
and exhibited an uneasy gayety ; he made cynical allu- 
sions to women, and then blushed ; he said he was going, 
and went not ; he forbore to look at or to speak to Miss 
Langdon, as if by this obvious forbearance he would 
prove to others, even to himself, his complete indiffer- 
ence. He congratulated himself on his success ; but not 
for one moment did he believe in it. He declared that 
he had letters to write ; he repeated the declaration 
three or four times ; nobody asked him to stay. When 
he had gone, he reappeared again to complain that the 
post had gone ; one would have thought that on those 
unwritten letters depended the happiness of his life. 
Indeed, he tried to smile in a knowing manner; but no- 
body asked him to whom he was so eager to write. He 


dick’s wandering. 


123 


brought a paper from the house, and from it he read 
passages which interested nobody ; he had never done 
such a thing in his life before. At last he undertook to 
show his friends a gymnastic feat ; he twisted himself 
into a position, which he suddenly felt to be ludicrous ; 
he untwisted himself cold and nerveless; he tried to 
smile when Mrs. Hurte Parkinson broke into silvery 
laughter. “ Tory is going mad,” whispered Ossie to the 
lady. “ Is n’t it the dog-days ? ” asked she. Miss Bond 
smiled at Ossie, as if she would claim his sympathy for 
the unfortunate youth. Certainly the proud and digni- 
fied John Torington was strangely unlike himself. Pre- 
tending to be absorbed in his paper he slowly sank into 
tlie depths of silent gloom. 

That evening Dick Hartland was standing at the end 
of the terrace. The park before him was full of vil- 
lage people. Half screened by some great dark trees on 
the right was the tent, where the laborers had dined, and 
had listened to the young squire’s few but friendly 
words. In the distance, by the cricket-ground, people 
were dancing ; lights were shining and moving ; and the 
music came to the house with all the added beauty of the 
cool evening air. Dick was thinking that it was a great 
thing to be able to do something for all these people. 
He hoped and thought that he would never be careless 
of their welfare. What could be easier, he asked him- 
self, than to do a good turn to one’s friends ? As he ^ 
was thinking such thoughts, he felt a light touch on his 
arm ; and turning he saw his mother. He put his arm 
round her. 

“ They seem happy, don’t they ? ” he said. 

“ Yes,” she answered with a restrained excitement in 
her voice, which surprised him ; but I have some news 
for you.” Then she paused. 


124 . 


DICK S WANDERING. 


“ What is it ? ” 

‘‘ I think it is good news. I think you will be pleased. 
I hope you will be pleased, my dear, dear boy.” She 
looked up at him, and Dick could see in her upturned 
face an unusual tenderness, which almost frightened him. 
^ It is about Betty,” sbe said. 

What about Betty ? ” 

She has promised to marry Mr. Torington.” 

‘‘ Impossible ! It can’t be.” 

‘‘ He has just told me. I do hope that it is for the 
best. I think it is a very good thing that Betty should 
marry a really nice man. He is nice, is n’t he, Dick ? ” 

“ He *s a first-rate fellow.” 

“ Dear Dick ! ” she said, leaning a little nearer to him. 
“ I hope you are glad. I have sometimes thought — it 
has crossed my mind that you might like Betty — that 
she and you might ” — 

I ! What ! Betty and I ! ” Dick laughed, and his 
mother felt relief. 

“ I should n’t have liked it,” she said ; ‘‘ I don’t think 
it would have been for your happiness ; but I have fan- 
cied sometimes that Betty — I do think that marriage 
will improve Betty wonderfully.” 

Dick laughed again, but not heartily. Women are 
certainly strange creatures,” he said ; “ not you, mother 
— but the rest.” 


CHAPTER XVIL 


Dick awoke next morning with mind perplexed. He 
could not understand Betty’s conduct. He hated the 
suspicion that she had not been wholly honest, when 
she spoke to him of Torington so short a time ago. 
Since nothing was to be gained by wondering, he deter- 
mined to trouble himself no more, but to hope for the 
best. Surely there were good grounds for hope. He 
knew that prominent among his mother’s theories was 
that of the wonderful effect of marriage on the female 
character. He thought that his mother ought to be an 
authority on this subject. He was inclined to agree 
with her opinion that Betty needed some person of 
strong character to take * care of her ; though he was 
hardly certain yet that John Torington was such a per- 
son. Though he liked Torington, he had known him 
but a short time. He knew that he was a good fellow ; 
that he was regarded by other good fellows, like his 
friend Stanmere, as comically scrupulous. But yet he 
lould not feel sure that among his friend’s merits was 
that strength of character which in this case was the 
thing most important. He hoped that his mother might 
be right in this opinion also ; but it occurred to him as 
possible that women were apt to attribute great force of 
character to any man who had a fine profile and a re- 
served manner. One thing was clear ; there was no 
good in crying over spilt milk. When Dick was vigor- 
ously brushing his hair, hope was plainly in the ascend- 


126 


dick's wandering. 


ant : when he entered the dining-room, arrayed as befits 
a prosperous young Briton on Sunday morning, his 
mother, looking up from the teapot, felt a quick throb of 
relief ; he seemed in the highest spirits. As he came to 
kiss her, she thought that he looked more like his father 
than he had ever looked before. Perhaps Mrs. Meryon, 
who enjoyed a temperament quickly and subtly sympa- 
thetic, recognized the thought in her daughter’s mind. 
Certain it is that amid the frivolous talk, and above the 
home-made sausage which she had but just secured, she 
directed at Sophie Hartland a gentle sigh, which was 
eloquent of the uncertainties of life. Dick intercepted 
the soft glance which accompanied the sigh. “ IIow are 
you. Granny?” he asked, with the careless confidence 
of youth. He wrung the hand of John Torington, who 
was trying not to look too absurdly happy. He looked 
for Betty ; but that inscrutable young person had not 
appeared. About the other women there was an air of 
suppressed excitement and of mystery, for which there 
was not the slightest reason. The younger men had an 
appearance somewhat sheepish ; while Hervie Langdon 
regarded the youth who had been so strangely eager to 
become his son-in-law with frank but not unkindly cu- 
riosity. ‘‘ How extremely funny it all is,” he observed 
in a whisper to his sister. Lady Raeborough. 

“ Really, Hervie,” she answered, “ I do think that for 
this occasion only you might take a serious view of 
something. Remember that you will have to arrange 
about settlements.” 

Mr. Langdon laid down his knife and fork, and 
groaned aloud. He was serious enough now. Shall 
I have to see my lawyer?” he asked; he had not 
thought of this repulsive necessity ; he looked across the 


dick’s wandering. 127 

table at John Torington with active hostility ; then he 
groaned again, and then he laughed. 

Dick was restless in church. lie felt that he must 
have a talk with his cousin Betty, and convince himself 
that this engagement was a good thing. In spite of 
himself his thoughts returned again and again to this 
subject. Moreover, his restlessness was increased by 
the near neighborhood of Mr. Kirby, who filled more 
than his share of the seat, and who took part in the ser- 
vice with unnecessary distinctness and emphasis. The 
smug Sunday manner of the politician was particularly 
irritating to Dick that morning ; because he could not 
help contrasting it with the mood of relaxation and the 
ponderous worldliness which had been displayed by the 
same gentleman on the previous evening. When the 
sports on the green were finished, and the park was 
empty once more, the men staying in the house had re- 
paired to the smoking-room ; and there the statesman 
had so far condescended from his sphere as to entertain 
his young friends with equivocal experiences of his youth, 
scraps of worldly wisdom which he owed to the imper- 
fect recollection of many French novels imperfectly un- 
derstood, and old worn-out stories, whose only claim to 
distinction was that they could not appear in the society 
if ladies. Such was John Wilmading Kirby’s idea of 
the way to entertain young men. He was proud of his 
skill in adapting himself to any society. And yet it 
may be doubted whether a single one of his audience on 
that Saturday evening was made happier by the playful- 
ness of this middle-aged gentleman, who was so excel- 
lent a husband and father ; and whose wife and daugh- 
ter, sleeping the sleep of innocence up-stairs, were haply 
dreaming of him, seated on high in the House of Peers, 


128 dick’s wandering. 

rewarded not too highly for all the virtues, public and 
private. 

Dick, who had small appetite for garbage, was made 
uncomfortable by the close proximity of so much Sab- 
bath unction following so closely on such a holiday 
mood ; and presently this contrast put another thought 
into his mind, which made him more uncomfortable still. 
While he was mentally accusing Mr. Kirby of a sort of 
dishonesty, it suddenly occurred to him that perhaps he 
himself had not been quite frank in his treatment of his 
mother. Wishing to spare her as long as possible the 
annoyance which he foresaw, he had said nothing to her 
of his intention of acquiring the fee-simple of his real 
estate. He had said to himself that there was no use in 
troubling her, until she spoke to him on the subject. 
In London he had wondered why she did not question 
him about his visits to the lawyers. Since they had 
been in the country, he had expected every day that she 
would make some allusion to the making of a new settle- 
ment. It never entered his head that the gentle little 
lady had schooled herself to silence — that she had de- 
termined that nothing should induce her to thrust her 
advice on her boy, unless he cared to ask for it. So 
with constraint on her tongue she had busied herself 
with all the preparations for this country-house party. 
With a lurking fear in her heart, she had sought comfort 
in repeating to herself that of course Dick would settle 
Ihe property on his future son — that son whom she had 
already sometimes pictured as learning at his old grand- 
mother’s knee — as all Ilartlands had settled the land, 
since there were Ilartlands to settle anything. 

Now, when it had once occurred to Dick that his con- 
duct was not absolutely frank, he could scarcely sit still 


dick’s wandering. 


129 


in his place in the parish church. He had no doubt that 
he had left his mother under a wrong impression ; and 
though he had been silent for her sake, yet his passion 
for honesty was straightway on lire for the destruction 
of all delusions. He now felt certain that it was always 
better to proclaim his intentions from the house-top. 
He drew himself as far as possible from Mr. Kirby ; he 
fidgeted during the sermon of the excellent vicar, who 
was a High Churchman of the precise shade most agree- 
able to Mrs. Hartland ; he made up his mind to speak 
to his mother at the very earliest opportunity. This 
opportunity he did not find at once. Mrs. Hartland 
walked home with Lady Raeborough ; and Dick stopped 
to talk with Mrs. Emmens, who came to church, though 
her husband the cobbler did not. When he reached 
home, Dick ran up-stairs, hoping to find his mother alone 
in her room, but on the stairs he met his cousin Betty 
face to face, and his thoughts fiew instantly to her en- 
gagement. This was another matter, which it was nec- 
essary to clear up. He could not rest without being 
sure of Betty’s happiness. He looked at her with open 
.questioning eyes. 

‘‘I hope you are contented, Dick,” she said. 

I hope you ’ll be happy,” said he, looking up at her, 
for she stood a step or two above him. He was think- 
ing how lovely she looked ; and then he wondered if 
she did not seem too placid. 

“ Ain’t you going to be kinder than that ? ” she asked ; 
“ I did it to please you.” 

What ? ” cried Dick : Betty ! you must n’t say 
.hat.” All his passion for exact truth was up in arms 
in a moment. You must n’t say that, Betty. I begged 
you not to marry him ; and you said you would n’t.” 


130 


dick’s wandering. 


Dick ! ” 

“ It ’s true, Betty ; I remember perfectly. You said 
you were afraid it would be a bore ; and I ” — 

He stopped abruptly, for he saw that her great eyes 
were tearful. 

“ Oh dear ! ” she sighed. 

“ Forgive me, Betty,” he said ; “I’m a fool. I am 
awfully glad for .his sake ; and I am sure you are going 
to marry as good a husband as could be found any- 
where.” 

“ I thought you would be pleased,” she said reproach- 
fully. “ You were always telling me that I was behav- 
ing badly, and ” — 

“Yes, yes. It was bad to keep him in doubt. I 
said that you ought to say yes or no, — that you ought 
to say no, unless you were sure you cared about him 
enough.” 

Betty was looking dreamy; it was doubtful if she 
followed him. “ And now I have behaved well,” she said, 
“ and you scold me again.” 

“ But, Betty, you ain’t logical ; don’t you see ” — 

“ I see that you are very unkind.” Her voice trem- 
bled a little, and the tears seemed ready to fall. It was 
impossible to stand lecturing this lovely girl on a stair- 
case. 

“ No, no,” cried Dick, eager to console, “ of courso 
you ain’t logical ; why should you be ? ” Then there 
came a pause, during which the cousins looked at each 
other, and Dick said to himself that this sort of thing 
was what people meant when they said that women were 
not logical. He had heard the statement a thousand 
times ; he had even uttered it himself with a knowing 
air ; but he had never felt its real force before. “ You 


dick’s wandering. 


131 


are a great deal better than logical/’ he said presently, 
with an air of conviction ; ‘‘ you are going to be happy 
with the best fellow in the world, and to make him 
awfully happy — tremendously happy.” 

Betty smiled softly at the tremendous emphasis. She 
seemed in a truly April mood. 

“ Nothing could be better,” said Dick, with more em- 
phasis ; “ and I wish you joy with all my heart.” 

“ Thank you, Dick,” she said, and she held out her 
cheek like a child. Years had passed since her cousin 
had kissed her, and he blushed as he kissed her now. 
She certainly was a sweet young creature. He felt sure 
that she would make any man happy. 

They were still standing together, when Mrs. Hart- 
land came down-stairs, and putting her arm round Betty 
led her away with that manner half protecting, half re- 
spectful, which most women show to a girl who is going 
to be married. 

Dick looked after them for a minute with affection 
and perplexity. Then he ran up-stairs. 

It was clear to him that the moment had not come 
for disturbing this new happiness of his mother. To- 
morrow the house would be almost empty, and then he 
would find a good opportunity for breaking to her his 
intentions about the land. After all, his intention was 
merely to do nothing ; and he trusted to his skill to put 
it in so clear a light that his mother would see directly 
that he was only doing that which any sensible man 
would do. To-morrow they would laugh together at his 
scruples and fears. 


CHAPTER XVIIL 


The first thing that surprised Dick Ilartland on Mon- 
day morning was the early appearance in his room of 
his cousin Ossie. JVIr. Langdon’s hair was on end, and 
his eyes were heavy with sleep ; hut nevertheless there 
he was, lightly but sufficiently attired in a beautiful 
silken smoking-suit. He wore, moreover, an air of so- 
lemnity, which taken with the fact that he was out of 
bed at that hour instantly aroused his cousin’s curiosity. 

Dick sat up in bed, rubbed his eyes, and stared at Os- 
sie, who subsided languidly into the arm-chair and stared 
at Dick. 

“ Well ? ” said Dick cheerfully. As Ossie only looked 
at him with a sweet gravity, he added, “ What is it? ” 

I ’m going away after breakfast,” said Ossie ; ‘‘ and 
I don’t know when I shall see you again.” 

‘‘ In a day or two, I should think,” said Dick. 

Mr. Langdon took no notice of this suggestion. “ I 
have not had a chance,” he said, “ of speaking to you 
about this engagement.” 

“ Oh, that ’s all right,” cried Dick, who felt a strong 
dislike to reopen the question ; of course you like it ; 
Torington ’s a friend of yours, and a capital good fel- 
low.” 

Of course I like it,” assented Ossie seriously. “ Tory 
is a dear old chap ; but that ’s not everything. I have 
been thinking about it very seriously. I did n’t sleep a 
wink last night for thinking about our temperament, — 


dick’s wandering. 


133 


the Langdon temperament.” Here his cousin burst out 
laughing, and flung a pillow at him ; but Ossie laid the 
missile on one side, and only looked at the aggressor 
with silent disapproval. “ I came to ask you for ad- 
vice,” he continued after a short pause ; I do wish you 
would not always treat me as a baby.” 

Go on,” said his cousin. 

“ I am convinced,” said Ossie, that marriage — a 
prudent marriage — is the thing — is what the Langdon 
temperament needs.” 

“ And the Langdon temperament is going to try it.” 

“ I have made up my mind to turn over a new leaf. 
I am tired of this dangling after married women. I have 
made up my mind to do no more of it. I ” — 

“ Ossie ! It is n’t you that ’s going to be married, is 
it ? ” 

Mr. Langdon coughed. Not perhaps immediately,” 
he said. 

Dick lay back in bed and abandoned himself to laugh- 
ter. When he was able to speak, he said, ‘‘ You are an 
infant ; and I should forbid the banns.” 

Ossie rose with silent majesty ; but, as he rose, his 
scornful eye happened to rest on the pillow, which lay 
on the floor ; he could not resist the impulse ; he caught 
the pillow up. You old brute ! ” he cried ; be flung 
the pillow with a fine swing at Dick’s head, and darted 
for his life through the open door. 

Dick had slept later than usual, and when lie went 
down-stairs he found that Stanmere and Torington were 
on the eve of departure by the early train. They went 
back to the dining-room with their young host, that they 
might say good-by to the ladies. Betty looked up, as 
they came in ; “I thought you were the hot toast,” she 


134 


dick’s wandering. 


said, pouting. She went on with her breakfast, and 
seemed unaware that Torington was standing by her 
chair. John Torington was decidedly uncomfortable. 
He wished that she would come to the front door with 
him, but did not like to ask her. He was painfully con- 
scious of the presence of the butler by the sideboard. 

“ Good-by, my darling ! ” he whispered, as he stooped 
to her ear. 

‘‘ Good-by,” she said, not unkindly. 

‘‘ I shall see you to-morrow in your own home,” he 
murmured again. 

She gave a little nod for answer. 

“ Come on, Tory,” said Stanmere ; ‘‘ we shall be late ; 
good-by, Miss Langdon ; I ’ll watch over him.” 

“ If I were John,” said Lady Raeborough, when the 
two young men had gone and the door was shut behind 
them, “ I should break it o£E by telegram.” 

Betty looked at her charming aunt, and smiled before 
she answered. He won’t,” was all she said. 

Then followed one of those uncomfortable mornings 
full of the bustle of departure. Flies arrived at the 
back door, and carriages came round to the front. At 
luncheon, of all the guests who had made the old house 
so gay, not one was left but Mr. Osbert Langdon. Os- 
sie had gracefully refused to go with his father and sis- 
ter. He had conducted Mrs. Parkinson and Miss Bond 
to a later train ; and he had returned from the station 
smiling in a manner comically like his father’s at some 
delightful private joke. At luncheon he talked with 
light-hearted ease, and seemed not to care whether any- 
body answered him ; and this was lucky, for neither 
Mrs. Hartland nor her son was in a mood for conversa- 
tion. 


dick's wandering. 


135 


Sophie, with her delicate feminine instinct, was con- 
scious of coming explanations. She looked even more 
calm and unruffled than usual as she sat at the head of 
the table ; but she was looking forward with eager curi- 
osity and anxious fear to the moment when she would 
be left alone with her boy. 

Dick was telling himself that after all he had next to 
nothing to tell her ; he was repeating for the twentieth 
time that so wise a woman as his mother could not fail 
to see that he was going to do the right thing — the 
thing which any sensible man in his place would do. 
All this he had been telling himself again and again for 
some time past ; and yet he had not realized how strong 
those doubts must be, which required to be answered so 
often. 

Luncheon was almost finished before Ossie began to 
suspect that his cousin not only did not answer him, but 
was not even thinking of him. Now this was the sort 
of thing which Ossie resented in Dick. He had a rooted 
belief that Dick ought to be thinking of him constantly. 
For a moment he looked at him with pathetic reproach ; 
then, I ’ll astonish him presently,” he said to himself, 
and he smiled as he poured the cream over his tart. 

When Ossie had made an end of eating and drinking, 
he embraced his aunt Sophie with fervor, and promised 
to write to her frequently and to tell her everything. 
Then, as the dog-cart was already at the door, and his 
portmanteau in its place, he put his arm round Dick in 
a confiding manner and led him out of the house. When 
he was in his seat and had taken the reins from the 
groom, he seemed to remember something, which might 
as well be said. He stooped towards his cousin, who 
was standing by the wheel. “ Oh — Dick,” he said. — 
^ have you heard of the engagement ? ” 


136 


dick’s wandering. 


‘‘ What do you mean, you goose ? ” said Dick; “ I Ve 
heard of nothing else.” 

‘‘ I mean the other engagement.” 

“ The what ? ” 

“ Mine.” Having uttered this little word in his 
sweetest tone, he instantly chirped to his horse and 
drove quickly away. 

“ Ossie ! Ossie, you idiot, come back ! ” shouted Dick, 
when he was able to speak ; but Ossie only waved his 
whip in token of farewell, and vanished behind the 
shrubbery. 


GIIAPTER XIX. 


Dick did not trouble himself about his cousin’s start- 
ling intelligence. As soon as he could think of it, he 
dismissed it as an impudent fiction. He laughed and 
promised himself vengeance at their next meeting ; and 
then his thoughts went back again to his mother and to 
the subject of their next talk. Surely this was the op- 
portunity, for which he had been wishing. All the peo- 
ple had gone away, and his mother was alone in the 
house. And yet, when he had done laughing at Ossie’s 
absurdity, he still lingered before the front door, while 
his face became more and more grave ; and when at 
last he did go in, he went no farther than the hall. He 
made less noise than usual in taking his stick from the 
stand; and he lost no time in coming out again and 
starting for a walk by a path, which could not be seen 
from his mother’s window. He walked like one who 
fulfils a duty ; and all the way he kept telling himself 
that his mother could not possibly be grieved by his 
determination, that she could not help seeing that he 
was right. It was impossible that she should make a 
fuss about so very small a matter. He had no plan of 
parting with the property — nor with any part of it, 
save Emmens’ tiny garden. He had no present inten- 
tion of trying any experiment, even the smallest, with 
the land. His farms were held on leases which would 
not expire for some years ; his tenants were prosperous ; 
his rents were paid without complaint ; he had great 


138 


dick’s wandering. 


faith in his agent ; and there was no eye like his mother’s 
for the condition of the laborers’ cottages. If he were 
to go away for six months or a year — and the thought 
had occurred to him once or twice that possibly he might 
find it well to go away for a time — the machine would 
go on equally well without him. All that he was going 
to do was to execute a formal little deed, which by 
changing him from a tenant in tail to a tenant in fee- 
simple would make him a landowner indeed; which 
would give him power to do with his land at any time 
that which was for the best interest of all who lived on 
it, — himself, his farmers, and his laborers. Dick had 
long ago emphatically declared to himself that he could 
not bear to limit his own freedom by new settlements ; 
that it would be unbearable to see some day how a great 
benefit might be done to his people, and to know that by 
his own act he had made it impossible. Thus like a gen- 
erous young monarch but newly come to his kingdom did 
Mr. Hartland think of the worthy country folk, among 
whom he had lived as a child ; thus did he regard them 
with care almost paternal, and with a full sense of the 
responsibilities inseparable from his high position. 

When Dick was at home again, he allowed himself 
no time for hesitation. lie ran up-stairs and knocked at 
the door of his mother’s sitting-room She was wrapped 
in a soft tea-gown of nun-like simplicity ; and her son, as 
he came into the room, thought with a sudden tenderness 
how slight and delicate she looked. There was a look of 
expectation, almost of fear, in her eyes, as she looked up 
at him. For a moment he was tempted to put off the 
words, which — as he knew well in spite of all the con- 
clusive arguments which he had lavished on himself — 
would cause her deep distress. The next minute he had 


dick’s wandering. 


139 


made the necessary effort, and begun to speak. He 
Etood looking out of the window, and he tried to tell her 
of his next visit to his lawyer and of the formal deed 
which he was going to execute, as he had told her a 
thousand times of some small plan for the morrow. 
When he had finished, he still looked out of the win- 
dow, but he saw nothing ; he was intent on listening, and 
it seemed strangely long before he heard her words. 
When she spoke, she spoke very quietly ; but there was 
something in her tone which sent a shock to his heart. 

“ Are you going to sell the place ? ” she asked. 

“ No, no,” cried Dick, wheeling round from the win- 
dow ; “ I ’m not going to do anything with the place ; 
everything is to be as it is ; I only want to be able to 
do what it may be right to do some day — to keep the 
power.” 

‘‘To keep the power ! ” she repeated bitterly. Though 
she spoke bitterly, her first great fear was gone. She 
was so far relieved that she could find further relief in 
speech. The feeling of ill-usage, which had hurt her so 
long, which had been shown so seldom and never ex- 
pressed save in some slight hint or polite refusal to inter- 
fere, found words at last — words which half frightened 
her by their vehemence. “ You have never considered 
me,” she said. “ Perhaps there is no reason why you 
should consider me, or ask my advice, or even tell me what 
you are planning ; but I did think — I did hope that you 
would consider the wishes of your father, who is dead. 
He always looked forward — when you were a baby, he 
looked forward to the time when you would resettle the 
land as every Hartland had settled it before ; and when 
he was gone — I tried to study, tnat I might know what 
ne wished ; and be able to tell you ; and you never 


140 


dick’s wandering. 


cared to ask ; and now I have nothing to tell you except 
that you are doing what he — what your father ” — 

“ But mother,” said Dick, for something stopped her 
speech, “ mother, don’t you see that I am going to do 
nothing with the place? I only want to keep myself 
free, till I know better.” 

“ And do you think that you will know better than 
your father, and your grandfather, and all who have 
gone before? Yes, that’s just what you do think ; you 
have always thought that you knew best about every- 
thing. It was the same at school ; you made up your 
mind to leave ; you thought that, mere child as you 
were, you were a better judge than your mother, and 
your uncle Ilervie, and John Kirby, and your tutor, and 
everybody ; you have always been like that, always self- 
willed and — I don’t want to blame you ; I know that 
people have always liked you and flattered you, and 
made you think yourself a great man and ” — 

“ No, mother,” said Dick. He w'as amazed and 
shocked. He could not bear to hear her speak like 
this. He had always admired her for her dignity and 
simplicity, her self-control and calm. She had been to 
him, long before he had thought about it, his standard 
of perfect ladyhood, by which he measured other women. 
Now she seemed to him for the first time to be speak- 
ing wildly ; he was shocked and almost frightened. Once 
or twice there flashed across him the uncomfortable 
idea, with which Betty’s engagement had inspired him, 
that perhaps he did not understand women. It was an 
idea by no means pleasant to Dick ; for he was apt to 
congratulate himself on understanding people so easily. 
If one half of mankind were really so hard to read, it 
might not be so easy a matter after all to direct hi« 
course through life. 


dick’s wandering. 


141 


Presently Mrs. Hartland spoke again, and spoke more 
quietly. “ You are going to do nothing at present ? ” 
she said, with her eyes turned from him. 

‘‘ Nothing whatever,” he answered. I want every- 
thing to be exactly as it has been ; everything is going 
on capitally. I do so hope, mother, that you will make 
no difference ; that you will go on managing everything 
which you have managed before — the house, and the 
cottages, and everything.” 

“ Mrs. Emmens, the cobbler’s wife, said something 
to me — something which I did not understand — about 
your kindness ” — 

“ Oh, I forgot,” cried Dick ; ‘‘I told Nicholas Em- 
mens that I would give him his garden.” 

“ That you would give it to him ? ” 

“ Yes ; it ’s nothing, you know ; and you know what 
he ’s made of it ; it ’s wonderful ; I wanted to give it 
him partly for that, and partly to see what ’s the most 
that can possibly be made with a spade out of a patch, 
when it ’s a man’s own.” He spoke quickly and as 
carelessly as he could, but he watched his mother anx- 
iously. She was still looking away from him, as she 
said, “ I thought that you were going to do nothing. 
Is n’t it early to begin giving away the land ? ” 

“ The land ! Mother ! A little slip of a garden ! ” 
Dick looked at her with eyes bright and eager. He 
wished so much to persuade, and as usual he could not 
help hoping that he should succeed. He had no concep- 
tion of the depth of the wound which he longed to heal. 
He did not know how long she had nursed in silence 
the feeling of ill-treatment ; how she had been injured 
by his premature independence ; how she had cherished 
the annoyance, which her self-willed boy caused, as loy- 


142 


dick’s wandering. 


alty to her dear husband, who was dead. Now as she 
sat silent in her chair and would not meet the anxious 
eyes of her son, the feeling of personal injury was be- 
ing swallowed in a rising tide of sorrow for the future 
of this headstrong boy. It seemed sad indeed that he 
should have lost the father, who would have been the 
best guide and guardian in the world ; and whose au- 
thority, she felt sure, would never have been questioned. 
Of that at least she was certain ; as she was certain 
that the man who had been taken from her was the 
wisest and strongest of men. 

‘‘ I wish I could do something for you,” said Dick, at 
last, and he came a little nearer. 

“ Thank you ; I want nothing,” she said. I think 
we had better say no more at present,” she added after 
a minute. 

Then Dick knew that he had better go. lie stooped 
to kiss her on the forehead, but she did not seem to no- 
tice his kiss. She was sitting with her busy hands 
dropped idly in her lap. He stopped a minute at the 
door, half hoping that she would call him back; and 
then he went out less happy than he had ever been in 
his life before. 


CHAPTER XX. 


When Dick had done that which seemed good in his 
eyes, and had made himself master of his broad acres, with 
power to sell them or to leave them to whom he would, 
he began to think that for the present, at least, there 
was nothing more for him to do. No farmer demanded 
a new gate ; no laborer’s cottage incurred the rebuke of 
the Sanitary Inspector. Though he had full power over 
his own timber, he found that his trees were neither too 
many nor too few, and that they were all in the best 
condition. He almost regretted that his agent had done 
his work so well. He went back to his pamphlets ; and 
he invested in large blue-books, which reported the fer- 
tility of land under every kind of tenure. He had no 
difficulty in persuading Fabian Deane to pay him long 
visits, and to share his studies. When he was not shut 
up in his den he made himself busy in the open air. He 
tramped through turnips after partridges ; or he took 
long walks through lanes and field-paths of the valley, 
and out over the open downs. He made expeditions in 
search of a horse till he found a worthy companion for 
the old hunter, who had succeeded the well-loved pony 
of his boyhood. So with a week’s covert-shooting in 
November, for which the house was almost as full as 
in August ; with a day or two in each week with the 
hounds ; with walking with or without a gun ; with 
much study and with long thoughts, Dick’s autumn and 
winter wore away. It was a very peaceful time. The 
7 


144 


dick’s wandering. 


days seemed to pass as the days of former years. Al- 
most every day the mother and son were under the same 
roof r and every morning and evening they kissed each 
other, as they had kissed each other every morning and 
evening since Dick was a baby. 

And yet, though this mother and son had neither 
quarrel nor dispute during all those months, both were 
conscious of some unhappy influence which kept them 
apart. Indeed, Sophie Hartland could scarcely forget 
for a moment that she was aggrieved. She did her daily 
round of little duties with even more scrupulous regu- 
larity than before ; but she carried to the drawing-rooms 
of her county neighbors, and to the cottages of her 
friends in the village, a constant sense of injury. She 
was patient and gentle as ever. She sought no sympa- 
thy and made no complaint ; but the pride which kept 
her silent brought her but little comfort. She was sore 
at heart, and the sight of the being whom she loved best 
in the world gave her more pain than pleasure. She 
was SO much alone that she had time enough to go round 
and round the weary circle of sad thoughts ; to convince 
herself every day anew how ill she had been treated ; 
and to preach to herself, till she found some cold com- 
fort in an enthusiasm, almost religious, that her duty to 
her dear dead husband made it impossible for her to for- 
give her self-willed son. She told herself again and again 
that she would spare no pains to help Dick ; that she 
would not attempt to oppose him any more ; that she 
would make his home as pleasant as possible, till he had 
made up his mind to sell it, or had brought home some 
other woman to reign over it. Mrs. Ilartland’s imagina- 
tion was often busy with this lady of the future ; though 
she had faced the fact that of course he would not con 


dick’s wandering. 


145 


suit her, nor indeed anybody else, when he chose a wife. 
She thought that he would probably be taken in by some 
flattering woman ; but, come well, come ill, of his choice, 
she was determined that she would yield her place in 
the household without a struggle. She would only pray 
that her successor might make her boy happy. 

Meanwhile, in spite of Mrs. Hartland’s conscientious 
efforts to make his home pleasant, Dick did not find it 
very lively. Alone with his mother, he felt a new con- 
straint which was hard to bear. He caught himself 
imagining her unspoken criticisms, when he found her 
eyes resting on him ; and he called himself a fool for 
yielding to such fancies. He even caught himself weigh- 
ing his words before he spoke to her. The old frank- 
ness of their every-day life was lost. Dick was uneasy 
in an atmosphere charged with possible misunderstand- 
in<;s. He felt as if the silence of the house drove him 
to self-examination, and of self-examination he soon had 
more than enough. It was an occupation for which he 
had no natural taste. So more and more, as the winter 
passed away, he buried himself in his den ; and, when 
he had had enough of reading, he found uncritical com- 
panions in his gun or his horse. When he had tramped 
afoot for hours, his step would be light, and his mind 
busy with many plans for the future. When he was 
galloping over the grass with a strong horse under him 
and the hounds not far away, conscious of a whole field 
of neighbors and friends, all riding the same way with 
rivalry and good-fellowship, he felt in full measure his 
boyish delight in quick movement and the strife of 
comrades. At such times, if a thought of his mother 
crossed his mind, the shadow that had come between 
them seemed almost nothing. A little while, and all 


146 


dick’s wandering. 


would be well. She could not long be cold to him, who 
meant so well, and who was so fond of her. Besides, 
nobody had ever been cold to him for long. Yet, when 
he went home, there was the shadow still ; there was 
the same sense of uneasiness, which it was as hard to 
explain as to explain away. 

Slowly the winter departed, and the first signs of 
spring were seen in the land. Spring came, and with 
spring came Venus with all the Nymphs and Graces, for 
Betty Langdon was going to be married. All the long 
winter John Torington had chafed, for the most part si- 
lently, at the delay ; and at last the lady had consented 
with amiability to be married before Lent. It was for 
this wedding only that Dick Ilartland had waited ; for 
in Dick, as in so many men since the days of Geoffrey 
Chaucer, the first breath of spring had awakened the de- 
sire to go a journey. Once eager to go he found no lack 
of reasons. All winter he had been at home with noth- 
ing to do ; and he was tired of doing nothing. And then 
to his own heart he said that, when he came back after 
an absence, he would find again the mother whom he 
had almost worshipped as a child. Always hopeful, he 
was sure that a little separation would do a world of 
good ; and that there would be no shadow of disagree- 
ment in the future between himself and her, whom he 
should always love best of women. Mrs. Ilartland 
seemed to approve the plan ; at least she refrained from 
any hint of opposition. The second person to whom 
Dick spoke on the subject was Fabian Deane ; and on 
that enthusiast the proposal that he should travel again 
with his sometime pupil produced a remarkable effect. 
Several interests, which were smouldering in Fabian at 
the moment, rushed together into one blaze. lie had 


dick’s wandering. 


147 


been lashing himself with accounts of the persecution of 
Jews in Russia and Roumania. He had made the ac- 
quaintance of a political prophet, who was calmly await- 
ing the return of the chosen people to Jerusalem. He 
had been reading as part of his study of the land ques- 
tion some glowing — perhaps too glowing — accounts of 
(he fertility of the soil of Palestine. When Dick spoke 
of travel, Fabian was straightway on fire for Jerusalem, 
and for the plain of Esdraelon standing thick with corn. 
Dick, though he laughed at his friend’s uncontrolled ar- 
dor, was quick to catch a portion of his enthusiasm. This 
journey could not but be interesting, and the mode of 
life delightful. Moreover, he had had no glimpse of any- 
thing Eastern ; and he thought that he owed it to him- 
self to form some idea of the East. Every morning he 
had been studying in his paper the last aspect of the 
Eastern Question. Who could tell what the final out- 
come of this latest struggle of Russian and Turk would 
be ? Who could tell what would happen to Palestine, 
if the Ottoman Empire fell to pieces ? Was there a 
happier future for the Holy Land ? Was it to be again 
a Land of Promise? Such questions were exciting. 
There could scarcely be a better time for the visit of in- 
quiring youth. So everything was in readiness before 
Miss Langdon’s wedding-day. The travellers had en- 
gaged a dragoman who was to meet them at Alexandria ; 
and all things necessary for the journey were to await 
them at Jappha. 

John Torington and Betty Langdon were married un- 
der the happiest auspices. Hervie Langdon’s house by 
the river held plenty of people ; for he was fond of add- 
ing pleasant rooms as ideas came to him, and had made 
the low-roofed irregular cottage, while it preserved its 


148 


dick’s wandering. 


modest air, large enough for many friends. And now 
the house was full of friends. More friends, and ac- 
quaintance too, came to the ceremony from London ; 
but, though more women than men were attracted by a 
spectacle so interesting to the sex, of all the women 
there was not one so lovely as the bride. Feminine 
criticism could find no fault with her appearance, except 
that she displayed too much composure. Indeed she was 
more blooming than ever ; and she moved her father 
to some show of enthusiasm by her quiet determination 
to have enough breakfast before she went away. And 
when at last they went away, they went under a smiling 
sky. The sun shone in the soft blue, while on the low 
distant hills the shadows of light floating clouds passed 
quickly ; the wind was westerly ; it was an April day 
which had come before its time. In the meadows by 
the river the grass was already rich and deep ; and far- 
ther from the bank in a slight hollow of the upland field 
the first slender daffodils were astir. On such a day the 
carter jolting down a country lane tries to whistle a 
tune ; and on such a day the hearts of young lovers 
newly wed should have been full of hope and trust in 
the bounty of the unknown years. 

Dick was ready enough to feel the new life in the air. 
The desire of motion came from the moving stream. 
The river seemed to have awakened to caprice and joy. 
Its full dull i^rogress under a sullen sky had changed to 
play of sun and shadow, and whispers in the reeds. The 
Did river seemed young again, and in its journey down 
found time to linger where the sun was warm, and to lift 
the lily leaves in every little bay and still back-water. 
Dick could never see the Thames without longing to be 
on it. As soon as the young couple departed, and when 


dice’s wandering. 


149 


ihe rest of the people had begun to wander aimlessly 
through the house and lawn and shrubberies, Dick went 
in search of Ossie ; and having found him he straight- 
way took possession of him, and of his boat. Some- 
what to his surprise the perplexing youth followed him 
without protest. This too ready acquiescence of Ossie 
excited, as it always did, a vague disquiet in his cousin. 
Dick looked narrowly at Ossie, who looked remarkably 
well and innocent. Mr. Osbert Langdon had spent a 
pleasant autumn and winter. He had visited some of 
the most agreeable country-houses, and had been more 
or less spoiled in all of them. More lately he had been 
riding with his usual happy recklessness the best horses 
of a generous, but injudicious, friend. Having had, as 
he himself expressed it, as many crumplers as he cared 
about, he had come home to see the last of his sister 
before her marriage. During all this time he had given 
no report of himself to Dick ; and Dick, with his happy 
hopefulness, had inferred from his silence that he was 
not in any scrape particularly bad. Now, however, he 
felt somewhat less easy. When he had sculled a little 
way up-stream, he suddenly stopped, and fixing his eyes 
on Ossie, who was lounging in the stern and playing 
with the rudder-lines, he asked, “ Have you been up to 
anything particular ? ” 

No,” said Ossie, but he spoke rather doubtfully. 

You are in some scrape again,” said Dick. 

‘‘ Dickie, my dear,” said Ossie, with his fingers trifling 
with the stream, “ I ’m thinking of giving you a treat. 
Suppose I go with you to-morrow — to Jericho — or 
wherever it is.” 

What have you been doing ? ” asked Dick. 

Nothing. Really and truly I don’t think there ’s 
anything.” 


150 


dick’s wandering. 


« What is it ? 

“ Well, if there is anything — it *s this business of me 
and Sukey.’’ 

‘‘ What have you been doing ? And who on earth is 
Sukey?'' 

‘‘ Don’t be affected, Dickie,” said his cousin with ap- 
parent severity : ‘‘ do you mean to say that you have n’t 
heard about Susan Bond and me ? Everybody ’s talking 
about it,” he added, beaming with a sweet pleasure. 

“ Do you mean to say that there was really anything 
in that nonsense ? You are not engaged to Miss 
Bond ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” said Ossie. 

Dick regarded his cousin with a perplexed expres- 
sion ; he w^ondered, as he had often wondered, what on 
earth he should do with him. Of course he should like 
of all things to take him abroad ; but this wish made 
him more careful not to decide in a hurry. Pie began 
to scull again ; he had a theory that he thought more 
clearly when he was doing something vigorous with his 
muscles. However, when he stopped, he had thought 
of nothing better to say than, “ You don’t know if you 
are engaged or not ? ” 

Ossie shook his head pathetically ; he seemed to re- 
gard himself as the victim of a cruel fate. 

“ Does she know that you want to go away ? ” asked 
Dick presently. 

“ It was she who told me to,” said Ossie. 

“ Then I suppose that, if there was an engagement — 
it ’s the most absurd thing I ever heard of in my life — 
any way she has broken it off ? ” 

“ I don’t know. She ’s the cleverest girl I know ; 
and,” — Ossie smiled seraphically as he added, — “ she ’s 
awfully fond of me ! ” 


dick’s wandering. 151 

“ And are you fond of her ? ” asked Dick, as if he 
would bring this wayward creature to the point. 

‘‘ I don’t know,” answered Ossie ; and then, as he saw 
a look of impatience on his cousin’s face, he made haste 
to add, “ Of course I like her ; she amuses me awfully ; 
and she never bores one, don’t you know.” 

Dick regarded his cousin with a look of wonder. He 
could not think of anything else to say. He turned the 
boat and allowed her to float down-stream, while he sat 
with his knees drawn up, and thought. Presently he 
straightened his back and legs, and with a few strong 
strokes brought the light boat to the side of the sloping 
lawn. ‘‘Now,” said he, “ you jump out, and go and ask 
your father what he thinks about your going with Fa- 
bian and me to-morrow.” 

“ I hate Fabian Deane,” said Ossie inconsequently, 
as he slowly got out of the boat. 

“ You ’ll have to learn to like him,” said Dick 

Ossie lingered on the bank and stared at his cousin. 
“ Don’t you think, Dickie,” he said persuasively after a 
few minutes, “don’t you think that you could put it 
better to the padre ? And I ’ll go and talk it over with 
your mother. I like talking things over with your 
mother.” 

He stood smiling tenderly on his cousin, who at last 
began to laugh in spite of himself, and so felt obliged 
•“o say, “ All right.” 

When Hervie Langdon heard what his nephew had 
to say, he looked a little rueful. “ What shall I do 
without a child in the house ? ” he asked. 

“ Well,” said Dick, “I suppose he is too much of a 
child to take care of a wife.” 

“ To take care ! My dear boy, he is n’t capable of 
being taken cire of.” 


152 


DICK S WANDERING. 


“ Then do let him come,” said Dick ; ‘‘ there ’s nothing 
I should like better in the world.” 

‘‘ So be it. That ’s a clever girl ; too clever to be in 
a hurry. Upon my word it is vastly amusing. Ossie ! ” 
And with his boy’s name Hervie Langdon burst into 
one of his explosions of laughter. When the laughter 
was subsiding, he said, “ Take him with you. Tell me 
what his share will be, and I will give you the money ; 
I don’t suppose he has got any. It will be a reprieve 
for the dear boy, any way.” 


CHAPTER XXL 


Weddings are generally exciting to women; and the 
vvedding of her sister’s only girl could not but be excit- 
ing to Sophie Hartland. When she had given the last 
kiss to Betty and had whispered a blessing in her ear, 
she had gone to her room for rest and solitude ; and 
there she had been discovered by Ossie, eager to tell her 
everything about himself. Ossie never denied himself 
the luxury of female sympathy ; and there was no 
woman, not even Miss Bond, to whom he liked so well 
to pour out confidences as to his aunt Sophie. Sophie, 
listening patiently, thought with tenderness of this dear 
boy; of his sister, who had just taken the most solemn 
step in a woman’s life ; and of their mother, who would 
have liked so well to have listened to her boy and girl 
that day. But though she thought of these dear people, 
and even while she was giving her nephew the best 
advice, she was thinking far more of her own son and 
of his going from her on the morrow. She was glad 
that Ossie was to go too; and she made him promise to 
write to her, thus cunningly securing a second series of 
reports of Dick’s welfare. She knew that Dick would 
write when he could ; but she had made up her mind 
not to be importunate about letters. She was deter- 
mined that he should have no cause to blame her for 
want of consideration. Perhaps, while she showed con- 
sideration for his convenience, she did not realize how 
much she gave to her own pride. She had no hesita- 


154 


dick’s wandering. 


tion in strictly charging Ossie to write whenever he 
could, whether he liked the task or not. 

At last the wedding-day was done. When it was 
gone — with its irregular hours, its vacant restlessness, 
its gayety a little forced, with its old trappings of rib- 
bons and laces, smiles and good wishes, cake, rice and 
slippers — Mrs. Hartland found that, though night was 
come, she could not sleep. She was tired, but could not 
rest. She was hot in spite of the cool air from the 
passing river. She got up and went to the window. 
The quiet of the night seemed to soothe her ; and, when 
she felt cool, she wrapped a soft dressing-gown about 
her, and laid herself on the sofa. Still she could not 
sleep. She could not help thinking, and all her thoughts 
were of Dick. Somehow in the night she seemed less 
sure of herself, less confident that she was wholly right. 
Vague misgivings forced her to insist again and again 
on the grounds of her displeasure ; and yet she was tired 
of this insistence ; she longed to rest. How wretched 
it all was ! Why was her only boy so self-willed, so 
w’anting in consideration for her — no, not for her; she 
thought that she could easily forgive that ; but why had 
he so little consideration for the father, who could never 
claim his just authority ? So to Mrs. Hartland, who 
was accustomed to sleep so well, did a sleepless night 
bring the recurrence of dreary thoughts. When it 
seemed impossible that she should sleep at all, she went 
to the window again, threw it wide open, and leaned 
into the coolness of the night. There, as she leaned, a 
new thought came to her, which filled her for a mo- 
ment with self-reproach, though it came as a relief to 
breaking the old circle of thoughts. She wondered, as 
she had wondered so often at tlie end of her school- 


dick’s wandering. 


155 


boy’s holidays, if Dick had everything which he ought 
to take with him on his journey. She blamed herself 
for not having considered this question before. And 
yet had she not deliberately made up her mind not to 
interfere in his plans in any way ? She applauded her- 
self for having been so true to her determination. She 
might hope for the best, and pray for the best ; but he 
must go his own way, and be his own master. He 
had chosen to decide everything for himself; and of 
course she did not dispute his right so to do. And 
yet it would be dreadful if he were ill, and had not 
the proper remedies. The thought struck her with an 
awful chill; she turned away from the window. If 
this thing happened, she knew that she would blame 
herself forever ; that all her fine reasons for non-inter- 
ference would not save her a single pang. It was so 
likely, too, that he was going without those proper 
remedies. It was so like a man to plunge into these 
dreadful Eastern countries without even quinine. Then 
she remembered that she had some quinine in the small 
medicine-chest, without which she went nowhere. She 
was too restless to sleep ; she felt better if she walked 
about ; for a time she walked backwards and forwards 
in the room. Presently, for the sake of change, she 
opened the door ; the passage was dark and silent ; she 
walked out very softly. As she passed the room where 
Dick was sleeping, she made no pause ; but she listened 
and could hear no sound ; she noticed too that no light 
shone beneath the door. She thought that he must be 
sleeping soundly. She went back to her own room ; 
she lio^hted a candle and beojan to look over her things 
with a careless air. With the same careless air she 
noted the contents of her medicine-chest. The glass 


156 


dick’s wandering. 


bottle, which she took out of its woodeu case, was quite 
full of quinine ; it seemed a coincidence that none of it 
had been used. Presently she was standing by Dick’s 
door ; she was very reluctant to go in ; she thought that 
she was weak, and that she would be sorry for her 
weakness in the morning. And yet to put some qui- 
nine on her son’s table could be no breach of her de- 
termination ; she need not ask him to take it ; she need 
say nothing about it ; he might take it or leave it, as 
he chose. She turned the handle noiselessly; she al- 
most held her breath as she heard the soft, regular 
breathing of the sleeping boy ; it seemed to her that 
the beating of her heart was loud enough to wake him. 
With an effort to be calm she walked very quietly into 
the room. There on the floor was Dick’s weather-worn 
portmanteau strapped tight and ready for the journey, 
and by its side his black bag stood open ; she had to 
step carefully by them that she might place the quinine 
on his dressing-table. That was all she meant to do ; 
and yet she lingered a little. She stood still a moment, 
looking down at the strapped portmanteau. Then shad- 
ing the light with her hand she w^ent noiselessly to the 
bedside. Dick was sleeping soundly. As she looked 
at him a sudden sob shook her ; she was frightened, but 
he did not stir. This was her only child. Indeed, he 
looked most childlike as he slept. The lips, wdiich had 
seemed of late years so resolute, smiling often but al- 
ways unyielding, were parted now ; the hair was all 
ruffled and the cheek flushed. It was the face of her 
baby boy which the mother saw. She remembered how 
she had held him up with pride to his father on that 
morning when he rode away in the sunlight for the last 
^ime. With that memory in her heart she bent down 


dick’s wandering. 


157 


and kissed her boy’s cheek, but very softly, that she 
might not wake him. Then she turned away ; but, as 
she went, she stooped for a moment to stroke the old 
portmanteau, which was to go with him. Half smiling 
at her folly, yet on the brink of tears, she hurried to 
her room. When she had locked her door behind her 
she felt safe ; there was no need now for self-restraint ; 
she lay down on her bed, turned her face to the pillow, 
and cried. Then as she wept her heart found comfort ; 
she was glad of this which she had done ; sweet rest 
came as the tears flowed from her ; and at last she 
slept. 

The next morning at breakfast Sophie Ilartland 
looked cool and neat as usual ; and she poured out tea 
for Hervie Langdon and his guests, as if she had no 
thought more solemn than the just distribution of tea. 
Everybody seemed in the best humor. The serious busi- 
ness which had brought them together had been hap- 
pily disposed of ; their wedding garments were up-stairs ; 
they had leisure to enjoy this brief salutation of spring 
weather,' the sunlight on the river and the shadow on the 
lawn. Dick was quiet and thoughtful ; but his eyes 
were bright with the prospect of quick movement, with 
the hope of adventure. As for Ossie, the suddenness 
of his determination intoxicated him. In a few hours he 
had collected all sorts of things for his journey ; and 
among the rest he had borrowed from his father, and in 
defiance of Dick’s protest, a big revolver, which he in- 
sisted on packing in his unwarlike portmanteau. Early 
in the morning he was flitting about the house ; and 
while he flitted about, and even later when he sat at 
breakfast, he could not keep from laughing, for his heart 
vas light. It seamed to him that troubles ceased to be 


158 


dick’s wandering. 


when one ran away from them ; besides, to run away 
and leave your friends agape with amazement was capi- 
tal fun. 

All the party were on the steps to say good-by to the 
two cousins. They divided the interest between them ; 
for Fabian Deane was to join them in London. 

Good-by, mother,” said Dick ; “ thanks for the qui- 
nine; it was so good of you to think of it; good-by.” 

“ Good-by,” she said, and she kissed him in rather a 
stately manner. She was in the midst of people who knew 
nothing of her conflicting feelings ; she was chilled by 
their light talk and jesting, their holiday humor. When 
Ossie was already in the cart, Dick turned to kiss his 
mother once more. She received his kiss graciously. 
“ I hope you will have a pleasant journey,” she said. 

Have you got the slipper ready to throw ? ” cried 
Ossie from the cart. 

As the two boys were carried out of sight, Sophie 
Hartland was waving her handkerchief with the rest. 


CHAPTER XXIL 


Dick Hartland sat in the door of his tent, which 
Was pitched for the night on the high platean above Sin- 
jil in Palestine. It was midnight, and there was no 
moon ; but in the heaven so far, and deep, and clear, 
shone an innumerable company of stars. There was no 
sound except when a mule or horse moved restlessly, or 
farther off an Arab driver was crooning a monotonous 
song. Both Osbert Langdon and Fabian Deane were 
sound asleep ; the latter in the smaller tent close by ; 
the former in the larger tent, at the door of which Dick 
Hartland sat like a Turk, with his rug doubled under 
him. 

Dick was unusually solemn. It seemed as if for the 
first time he was under the strange influence of the East. 
During their few days in Africa he had travelled, as he 
had travelled often before. He had observed a thousand 
things, and all sorts of strange people, after that first 
boat-load of divers types and brilliant colors, which had 
come rowing to them off* Alexandria. He had paid a 
flying visit to Cairo by rail ; and he had found there the 
most modern of Boulevards cheek by jowl with the 
changeless Bazar. He had scrambled up a Pyramid, as 
if it were no more than Primrose Hill ; and had laughed 
before the sightless face of the Sphinx at Ossie’s petu- 
lant criticism. The travellers had had no time to linger ; 
their dragoman urged them on like the most Western of 
couriers ; he declared that the right season for Palestine 


160 


dick’s wandering. 

was passing. Hurrying with laughter and quick glances, 
they had been as far as possible from the ancient spirit 
of repose which broods over the unchanging East. 

Now, however, these young men had been journeying 
for many days through a land which seemed to have 
seen but few new things since Abraham pitched his tent 
in the borders. Indeed, they might well have fancied 
that Abraham himself was dwelling in one of those dark, 
flat, skin-covered tents of wandering Arabs, which they 
had seen one day low in a long wrinkle of the crumbling 
hills. It was a land without roads — almost, as it seemed, 
without people. In the quiet days and vast still nights 
the friends had fallen more and more into an unusual 
silence. Even their sojourn in Jerusalem had not broken 
the charm. They had pitched their camp beside the 
city, and had wandered about its walls ; they had sat for 
hours on a house-top gazing idly across the valley at the 
Mount of Olives. They had wondered at the beauty of 
the Mosque, which with light dome and cool clean tiles 
sits, like a fair frail woman, in the place of the gorgeous 
majestic temple of King Solomon. They had seen what 
sights there were ; but even sight-seeing was a different 
thing in that strange place, where the very Jews are 
poor and do not care to work. And now it seemed a 
long time since they had looked their last on Jerusalem. 
They had forgotten to count the days ; but day after 
day they had ridden slowly forward, silent for the most 
part, silent and solemn as Arab horsemen. Perhaps the 
air of solemnity was wholly due to Fabian Deane. Per- 
haps the silence of Osbert Langdon was due to nothing 
more than an agreeable laziness ; for Ossie was apt to 
grow sleepy under a hot sun, and was at times a little 
bored by the monotony of this uneventful life. lie was 


dick’s wandering. 


161 


tliijiking for the most part how hot it was ; how pleasant 
their dinner in the cool evening would be ; that a great 
many people must by this time have come back to Lon- 
don. Meanwhile Fabian was so full of burning thouglits 
— of humanity, of the race, of himself — that he had no 
time to speak; and Dick, looking at him, would occa- 
sionally wonder when the storm would break, when the 
Hood would burst the dam. 

The land through which they had been riding was a 
thirsty land. The low parched hills were furrowed with 
dry channels, where living waters used to run. There 
was sand, and rock, and scrub ; and all would have been 
desolate indeed, had not the wild flowers thronged wher- 
ever they could push their way, spreading wide carpets 
in the wilderness. There were familiar flowers abun- 
dant, as tulips, marigold, and cyclamen, with many others 
rare and strange ; in all a great and glorious company, 
like the stars of their Syrian heaven. But now the 
travellers had come up out of these dry places. Before 
nightfall they had passed along an old bridle-path, once 
a water-course, with orange-trees and fig-trees on either 
hand. From the plateau, where their camp was pitched, 
they had seen beyond the little white-walled village low 
rolling hills which seemed more green, and beyond these 
hills they knew that a broader valley stood thick with 
growing corn. 

Dick, sitting cross-legged in the entrance of his tent, 
was full of grave thoughts. It was so rare a thing for 
him to be wakeful, when he had once laid himself down 
to sleep, that he was in a mood to receive a double por- 
tion of the influence of that wonderful night. The little 
troubles and vain ambitions of his fellows seemed to be- 
long to another world, — a world in which he too had 


162 


dick’s wandering. 


skipped about with a full sense of his own importance. 
The little events of the last summer seemed to belong 
to some distant past, which like an oriental sage he now 
might contemplate unmoved. Not only did the dancing 
and dining, the light wooing and rash gaming, seem petty 
beyond belief. Scarcely less petty too seemed those 
things political, which had been so important — the 
party tactics — the choppings and changes of compli- 
cated laws, which with much groaning of ancient ma- 
chinery are adapted, if somewhat clumsily withal, to 
those changes of society which in our loftier moments 
we name “ The Progress of Humanity.” Somehow on 
that night, to Dick in this unusual mood, the life of man 
seemed something greater and deeper than all progresses, 
however excellent — than all experimental efforts to 
improve the conditions of life. This earth was small 
among the watching stars ; and perhaps man had no 
stronger claim to greatness than this discovery that his 
earth was small — no surer proof of something divine 
within him than this power to look upward and gaze with 
awe and comprehension on vast worlds and the spaces 
between. Matched with the mind of a man, who is great 
enough to measure his own insignificance, the death of 
a man seems no great matter. Surely this power of im- 
agination, of conception, of love, cannot be nothing, be- 
cause the limbs are still. Even to Dick Hartland strong 
in body and of a cheerful heart, happy in life and keenly 
interested in the things of the world, the unaccustomed 
thought of death brought on that night no depression. 
He felt very peaceful ; he was equal to either fate ; he 
was ready to live, or to die if need were. 

It was natural enough that Dick Hartland, possessed 
as he was by a strange solemnity, should begin to think 


dick’s wandering. 


163 


after a while of his mother, and to think of her with 
unusual tenderness. Love seemed so great a matter on 
that night that it almost seemed to him as if he ought 
to have put aside all his plans rather than have hurt his 
mother. Such plans seemed little enough ; and after 
all he had made no plans, but had only secured for him- 
self the power of making them. For the sake of this 
poor power of making philanthropic experiments, he 
had hurt the best woman in the world. She was still 
the first woman in the world to him, if he could no 
longer believe that she was always right. He thought 
of the time when he was a little boy, before it had ever 
occurred to him that she might be mistaken. He was 
almost sorry that he had ever outgrown his childish 
faith in her infallibility. These views of his seemed 
there and then to be but petty things to keep loving 
hearts apart. Why should he seek to be wiser than his 
father ? There in the quiet of the Holy Land age after 
age had passed away and brought no change. The 
past was ever present; and the wisdom of the fathers 
was enough for the children. To this boy, born to the 
hurry and quickened by the practical questions of the 
day, it had scarcely seemed strange on that night had 
he looked from the door of his tent and seen the angels 
of God walking shadowy in the starlight. Perhaps they 
would come to him and bid him arise and go to his 
mother. He was sure that, if he could not recover his 
childlike faith in her judgment, he would let her wishes 
influence his purpose with a double power in the time to 
come. Since he had left home he had kept all her let- 
ters. Indeed, he had made this a sort of small atone- 
ment, of which she knew nothing. They were pleasant 
letters, in which not only was no old controversy re- 


164 


dick’s wandering. 


newed, but uot even a hint of any difference was ad- 
mitted. They were full of news which he was glad to 
know, of the welfare of his friends, the prospects of the 
farmers, the little affairs of the village. Holding her 
last letter in his hand he smiled a little at the thought 
that he held there a charm against evil. Nor was he far 
wrong. Had not her whole life been such a charm for 
him ? To the high ideal of this little lady, to her ex- 
quisite refinement, to the purity of her thoughts, her son 
owed in great measure his chivalrous feeling for women. 
That he could not seek to injure a woman, that he had 
always shrunk with a healthy antipathy from low pleas- 
ures, — these facts were in great part due to lessons 
learned by a child, not knowing that he learned, to 
breathing air made pure by the daily beauty of a good 
mother’s life. It was well that she was the first woman 
in the world to him. His thoughts wandered a little 
further ; and he began to wonder if she would always be 
the first. Being in a tender mood, he began to consider, 
as he had considered more than once in the past few 
years, what sort of woman he should marry. He had 
plenty of theories of what a wife should be ; and sitting 
idly there he went through them once again. He had 
made up his mind long ago that when he had found his 
proper work in the world he would marry, and not till 
then. Then, as his life was to be full of activity, his wife 
must be quiet and gentle ; with her he should find re- 
pose in the intervals of the struggle. Of course she 
would be very good, for he had no taste for any but very 
good women. She must be full of love and considera- 
tion for his mother. He often doubted if it would not 
be wise to leave the choice of his future wife entirely 
to his mother. To give her a daughter, loving and 


dick’s wandering. 


165 


obedient, would be a fine atonement for bis own inde- 
pendence. And so, after all, these vain imaginings had 
for the most part tended to show that his mother would 
be always the first woman in the world to him. Even 
now, on this night in Palestine, his first thought of his 
future wife was as of a delightful gift for his mother. 
Then he enumerated once again all those merits and 
those quiet feminine virtues which were to complete his 
own active life. The picture was the same ; and yet at 
that strange hour it could not but be different. The ex- 
cellent housewife of his dreams was softened by some 
shade of mystery ; some wonder of womanhood seemed 
to veil the image from critical eyes ; and it was with a 
heart filled with a deeper emotion that he bent his head 
backward to gaze into the immeasurable heaven. 


CHAPTER XXIIL 


From: waking dreams and thoughts unusual Dick was 
suddenly aroused by an appearance which seemed to 
bring upon him suddenly all that was most modern in 
this modern world. He turned with a shock to every- 
day life ; for there was Ossie coming forth from the tent 
with his blanket wrapped around him and a camp-stool 
dragged behind him. 

What are you doing out here ? ” asked Ossie. 

“ Thinking,” said Dick ; “ I could n’ t sleep — for a 
w^onder.” 

And I can’t sleep either,” said Ossie, who had been 
slumbering for hours like an infant. “ I don’t think I 
often sleep now,” he added pathetically, as he placed 
himself beside his cousin. 

“ Do you lie awake for sighing purposes ? ” asked 
Dick, with a levity which seemed to Mr. Langdon ill- 
timed. 

“ It ’s all very well for you,” he said with much dig- 
nity ; “ I only hope you may never have to go through 
what I have gone through.” As he struck a match and 
raised it to the cigarette in his mouth, Dick looked at him 
critically, and seeing the very comfortable expression 
of his face began to laugh. 

I don’t believe you ever cared tuppence about her,” 
he said. 

Ossie blew a ring of smoke, and a sigh to follow. 
Then he took the cigarette from liis lips, and observed 


dick’s wandering. 167 

with manifest satisfaction, “ Poor Susan ! She was un- 
common fond of me.” 

I hope she ’ll get over it.” 

“ Very likely,” said Ossie pathetically ; “ very likely. 
I dare say it would be better. It is n’t everybody who 
could get on well with me. I don’t think people under- 
stand me. You never understood me, Dick. You can’t 
understand this business of mine. You ’ve no senti- 
ment.” 

He appeared to derive some comfort from this consid- 
eration ; he wrapped himself, misunderstood as he was, 
more warmly in his blanket ; he sighed plaintively, and 
so relapsed into silence. Soon, however, he began to be 
annoyed, because his cousin did not talk to him. He. 
fidgeted a little on his stool, and then asked Dick what 
he had been thinking about before he joined him. 

“ Lots of things,” said Dick ; principally death.” 

‘‘ Ugh ! ” said Ossie. 

‘‘ It ’s just as well to think about it sometimes. Sup- 
pose you had to face it.” 

“ I should run,” said Ossie, like a hare.” 

“ Oh no, you would n’t,” said Dick ; you can be 
plucky enough ; I call you rather a reckless chap ; look 
at the way you ride sometimes.” 

“ That ’s all excitement. I should be in an awful 
funk, if I had time to be.” 

‘‘ Well, then,” said Dick with his inquisitorial manner, 
“ suppose you had to choose in cold blood between dying 
and doing a dirty action ? ” 

“I should n’t die that time,” said Ossie, and he made 
a nice ring of smoke in the air. 

You don’t know what you are saying.” 

‘‘ I know I ’d do anything rather than die ; so would 
8 


168 


dick’s wandering. 


anybody ; and ifc ’s all bosh saying they would n’t. Peo- 
ple nowadays ain’t such fools as to die if they can help 
it. Everybody looks after himself, when it comes to 
the point. You ’d do anything to save your life, just 
as I would.” 

“ God forbid ! ” said Dick. 

‘‘ Well, I make no pretence,” said Ossie as loftily as if 
he were on the highest moral ground. “ I ’d do any- 
thing to save my life ; and there is n’t a fellow at the 
Club who would n’t say just as I do. The fact is, Dick, 
you ain’t a man of the world.” 

Well, I don’t desire your death,” said Dick. 

And I don’t desire yours,” said Ossie ; and I ad- 
vise you, if you see any danger, to run ” — 

Like a hare ? ” suggested Dick. 

“ I like a nice, warm, comfortable life,” continued his 
cousin ; ‘‘and it ’s getting beastly chilly here ; and I’m 
going back to bed. Good-night, Dickie, you old brute. 
Everybody for himself ! and Sauve qiii pent ! That ’s 
the thing in these days. Chacun pour soil and the 
Devil take the hindmost ! ” 

Mr. Langdon’s knowledge of the French language 
was of the slightest, but he spoke it with a very pretty 
accent. On the present occasion his French precepts 
sounded so pretty in his ear that further argument 
seemed unnecessary. Ossie felt himself one of the wise 
and good, as, repeating delicately, “ Sauve qui pent / 
Chacun pour soi I ” he inserted himself carefully into 
his narrow camp-bed and nestled down for warmth. 

Dick, left alone, sat staring out into the night. “ If 
’t were now to die, ’t were now to be most happy,” his 
lips murmured. Then he sat upright and throw his 
arms outward and backward with a movement full of life 


dick’s wandering. 


169 


and energy. ‘‘ What ’s the matter with me ? ” he said 
aloud, and laughed. It seemed strange that he, of all 
people, should sit so long motionless, mooning, and even 
muttering poetry. He wondered if he were going to 
be ill. He never remembered to have been so wakeful 
before. He began to consider what he should do, if 
taken ill there and then ; he found himself unable to ride 
forward, and as he began to consider he caught himself 
yawning widely. Perhaps he was not so wakeful, after 
all. He would give sleep another chance. So he rose 
and felt his way through the darkness of the tent ; and 
his head was scarcely on his pillow before he fell into 
a deep sleep, and dreamed no more. He never stirred 
until the tent was full of mellow light, and Fabian 
Deane, booted and spurred, stood dark in the doorway 
with the bright morning behind him, and shouted to the 
sluggards. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


It needed but a breath to kindle Fabian Deane into 
one blaze. Dick, who had carefully counted for days 
past all the people whom he saw, dropped the remark 
that the land through which they were riding could 
certainly support more inhabitants. 

“More!” cried Fabian, after gazing sternly on his 
friend for at least a minute ; “ millions ! ” and w ith a 
sudden pressure of the knees he brought his old horse 
in great astonishment to the side of Dick’s animal. lie 
fastened his hot eyes on Mr. Hartland’s face, eager as 
he always w^as for an opportunity of excitement. Fa- 
bian was just beginning to find the life a little dull, and 
to comfort himself with the thought that he could not 
live without zealous action. For the last few days he 
had been amusing himself by trying to imitate the Arab 
seat on horseback. He had succeeded in imitating the 
Arab head-gear, and glared from under the striped silk 
like the fiercest of Bedouin warriors. 

“ Why should not all this land flow again with milk 
and honey ? ” he asked wdth his grand manner, and 
throwing his arm abroad. 

“ I wish it would flow with a little more water,” said 
Dick. “ If one could secure water and a fixed limit to 
taxation, it would n’t be a bad field for immigration.” 

“ It ’s a sublime idea,” cried Fabian ; “ the wilderness 
shall blossom like a rose ; it shall be once more fitly 
called the Holy Land.” 


dick’s wandering. 


171 


‘‘ South country laborers might stand the heat well 
enough,” said Dick thoughtfully. “ They might learn 
to shade the backs of their necks ; and to sleep at noon ; 
and — What ’s the effect of cider in a hot climate? ” 

“ I should like to try,” said Ossie. It was the first 
sign of life which he had given for some time. He was 
sitting loosely in his saddle, and holding a large white 
umbrella over his head. Ilis flannel coat was all un- 
buttoned ; his breeches were unbuttoned at the knee ; 
the gaiters, which he had taken off, hung on his horse’s 
neck, and his slippered feet were hanging out of the 
stirrups. He presented an appearance sufficiently de- 
moralized. It was very hot. They had been riding 
since early morning low down along the shore of the 
Sea of Galilee. The high hill on the left seemed to 
keep the air from them ; and the sun, now high over 
their heads, blazed in the oleander blossoms, by which 
they rode. But the greater the heat, the more quickly 
kindled to enthusiasm was Fabian Deane. He too, like 
the oleander flowers, seemed to throb with fierce sun- 
light. 

It ’s a great idea,” he cried again ; here is a land 
well nigh empty ; there is our little England full to the 
brim of struggling humanity. What is necessary ? An 
idea! In a moment we infuse the torpid East with 
Western blood.” 

A pretty long moment I ” said Dick, laughing, though 
his pulse quickened, as he thought that he really might 
do something ; he felt glad of his friend’s belief. “ We 
must wait till we get to Damascus,” he added, “ and 
see Tisley. Old Peter says that nobody knows this 
country like Cavendish Tisley. If he can get me a 
good title, and a guarantee against over-taxation, I ’ll 


172 


dick’s wandering. 


buy a bit of land, and send over a bailiff and a few 
laborers to try the experiment.” 

“ You will ? ” cried Fabian in amazement. 

Of course,” said Dick ; ‘‘ I ’ve been thinking of it 
for weeks ; and it ’s worth trying.” 

‘‘ Thinking of it ! Yes, but — by heaven, Dick, I 
think you are the most wonderful man in the world ! ” 
Ilis voice rose as he spoke, till the last words rang in 
the air. 

Dick blushed and looked round uneasily, as if he 
heard his fame trumpeted to the four quarters of the 
world. Then he laughed, and said he hoped that it 
was n’t “ as bad as all that.” 

“ You seem to think,” said Fabian, glaring at hiu^, 
‘‘ that to think of a plan and to carry it out is all the 
same thing.” 

“ Well, you must think of it first. That ’s the hard 
part. It’s easy enough to do the riglit thing, when 
you ’ve once seen what it is.” 

Easy ! It ’s the most wonderful thing under heaven, 
and in earth, and in the deep sea to boot. If I had 
carried out one millionth part of my plans, I should have 
transformed the face of Europe long ago.” 

Dick began to laugh ; but Fabian regarded him with 
a countenance stern and full of awe. 

I believe you to be great,” he said. 

“ Oh come on,” said Dick, and he kicked his gallant 
old steed in the side. 

Fabian leaned towards him, and laid his hand on his 
gaudy bridle. “ I must tell you,” he said, frowning. 
“ It is great of you to be always making plans for the 
good of others. Your life is attuned to the great har- 
monies; it’s sacred to the sacrifice of self. It’s great. 
That ’s what it is ! ” 


dick’s wandering. 


173 


Don’t talk nonsense ! ” said Dick, impatiently. 

What do I sacrifice ? I like making experiments ; I 
like to make people happy if I can ; I ’ve got the means 
to satisfy my tastes ; I ’m the luckiest fellow in the 
world.” 

By heaven, I think you are ! ” 

And I hate talking about myself.” 

“ I wish you ’d talk about luncheon,” said Ossie plain- 
tively ; how much further, Piero ? ” 

‘‘It is close to,” answered the dragoman, with his 
quick, responsive grin. 

“ And yonder,” added Fabian, with a quick change to 
his mock-heroic manner, — “ lo ! yonder I descry our 
men and our tents, our mules and our she asses.” 

Piero shook his head. “ Those are of the American 
Principe,” he said. 

“ The American what ! ” cried Mr. Deane ; “ art 
thou then unaware, O most ignorant of Maltese drago- 
mans, that there is but one thing which America cannot 
send us, and that that one thing is a Principe ? ” 

Piero answered only by a smile. He had a great 
dislike to admitting any gap in his extensive knowledge ; 
he determined to approach again and with cunning 
diplomacy this question of American princes, and to ar- 
*ive at the truth without displaying his ignorance. 
Meanwhile he smiled a smile of double meaning ; and 
lie changed the subject by becoming suddenly aware of 
the well, whereby they were to rest. He struck spurs 
to his long-suffering little animal, and galloped forward. 

Beautiful indeed it was in the eyes of the dusty 
travellers, this mid-day resting-place, when at last they 
rea<3ied it. They came riding out of the dust and the 
downright glare of the sun ; and there at the foot of a 


174 


dick’s wandering 


hill welled up from the cool depths of earth the fairest 
of fountains. The clear water was bound in by rocks, 
some of which had been moved from their natural place, 
that the precious liquid might escape but slowly through 
a mere crevice, and so run trickling away. All over 
the rocks, stooping for moisture, glistening and cool, 
crouched an old fig-tree ; and the fruit — perhaps before 
any other figs in the world — was already swelling on 
the boughs. 

Dick gave a shout of welcome ; he swung himself out 
of the saddle, and in a moment was lying along the 
largest bough of the fig-tree. Ossie looked for the most 
comfortable stone, and so disposed himself that he could 
dip his face in the water without further movement. 
Fabian settled himself in the shade with his back against 
the old gnarled trunk. After the heat and the thirst 
there could be no place more luxurious in all the world ; 
and, when Piero had provided the travellers with their 
frugal luncheon, all three felt for a time an almost per- 
fect contentment. It was a very beautiful place, — a 
place of sweet waters in a thirsty land, — and it was 
here that Dick saw, or fancied that he had seen, bright 
eyes look at him for a moment with humorous question- 
ing. Ossie had fallen asleep on the long flat stone with 
his cheek close to the water ; and Dick looking drowsily 
down upon him was more and more occupied by the 
thought, that without moving on his branch he could 
touch his cousin’s head with his left hand. When he 
had thought of this sufficiently, he lazily put out his 
hand, and held it over the unconscious sleeper’s head, 
smiling with the delightful knowledge that by the 
slightest further movement he could plunge Ossie’s head 
into the crystal basin. While he hung thus, like doubt- 


* dick’s wandering. 


175 


ful fate in a fig-tree, he was aware of a noise of hoofs. 
Looking up he saw four horses and their riders passing 
at no great distance. There was a tall man riding with 
long stirrups, and a seat rather military ; a young girl 
mysterious in a great veil ; another woman, who to the 
idlest glance was revealed as a lady’s-maid, and more- 
over a French one; and finally the dragoman. There 
was an interchange of rapid chatter between this last 
and Piero ; the tall gentleman raised his hand towards 
his wide felt hat; and leaving nothing but a puff of dust 
the party had passed away. Dick had not had time to 
move ; he had only withdrawn the hand, which had been 
hovering over his cousin’s head, and had passed it over 
his own eyes. Now he lay there drowsy, stretched 
along the bough, till Fabian Deane, wide awake and in- 
stantly restless, began shouting, “ To horse ! ” 


CHAPTER XXV. 


One day, as the three friends were riding onward to- 
gether, Dick burst out laughing. His was a laugh which 
conciliated most people ; and which never failed to ex- 
cite the curiosity of Fabian Deane. 

“ What is it ? ” cried F abian, already on the broad 
gi-iu with sympathy ; “ what are you laughing at ? ” 

Dick opened his mouth to answer, but he presently 
shut it again. He was astonished at his own silence ; 
he was annoyed to find himself blushing under the fixed 
gaze of his friend, who was now regarding him with sol- 
emn inquiry. It was Dick’s habit to answer questions 
without hesitation ; and after all, that which had moved 
his laughter now was but a small matter. He had been 
thinking how childish he must have looked, hanging in 
a fig-tree, and debating whether he should duck his un- 
conscious cousin or no. Any one who had chanced to 
see him so for the first time must have carried away a 
comical impression of him. He could not help wonder- 
ins: if he had seen a real look of amusement and curios- 
ity ; if it were possible to have observed so much in a 
moment tlirough a big veil, which was tied all over the 
hat and the hair ; if he had really seen eyes, and why 
he thought that they must be blue. Considering such 
questions, as he rode through a monotonous land, he had 
begun to laugh ; the friend, who watched him like an 
admiring and inquisitive collie, had asked him why ; and 
much to his own amazement he had not answered. He 


dick’s wandering. 177 

laughed again, but less naturally, and shouted to Ossie 
some fragment of their old school chaff. 

One morning Dick and Fabian sat on their horses, 
and watched the rapid packing of tents, furniture, lug- 
gage, and kitchen on the much-enduring mules and 
asses ; while Ossie, with his bedroom falling around 
him, was struggling with a stiff strap of his portmanteau, 
and warbling pathetically. The daily scene was always 
amusing. The muleteers were always in a tremendous 
hurry, though there was no need for haste ; and in the 
midst of these childlike persons, who played the same 
game every morning and never were tired of it, the little 
wrinkled Coptic cook, superior to the bustle, packed his 
bright pans with calm deliberation. As Dick and Fa- 
bian sat watching the well-known scene, their brown, 
keen-eyed dragoman, who had been galloping hither and 
thither, and shouting commands, as if there were really 
somebody who did not know exactly what to do, reined 
in his little steed beside them, smiling a conciliatory 
smile. Smiling his best he pointed away across a lit- 
tle valley, down into which the sunlight still was creep- 
ing. 

They looked where he pointed, and were aware of 
something white beyond a wrinkle of the low hill west- 
ward, — something that shone silver white, as the sun’s 
rays caught it. 

“ That American ! ” said Piero. 

“ The encampment of the Principe Americano ! ” 
cried Fabian. 

Piero smiled, as if he knew a great deal more than he 
could be induced to make public. He had not yet been 
able to discover the real truth about the princes of 
America ; and a true instinct warned him that from Mr 


178 dick’s wandering. 

DeaDe at least he would gain nothing hut a bombastic 
fiction. 

As Dick sat and looked across the valley to that 
gleaming speck of white, he felt a hand stroking his 
knee, and looking down saw a little brown boy who had 
crept up from the neighboring mud-village. The hand 
left off stroking the cords and was extended in the usual 
fashion ; the soft Syrian eyes assumed their most im- 
ploring expression, and the little voice murmured that 
one word of Arabic which all travellers learn so quickly. 
Dick patted the thin little shoulder, which the tattered 
shirt left bare ; and then he dropped a Turkish coin — a 
strange little concave circle of pewter with a hole in it 
— into the little hand. As the dark face flushed with 
joy, it suddenly occurred to Dick that he had done some- 
thing which would commend itself to a young woman of 
quick sympathy. It was a strange thought, but pleas- 
ant. 

Day after day the three friends journeyed, without ad- 
venture, but with much enjoyment. Once they passed 
a well, whereby the day before had been a skirmish be- 
tween Druses and some Maronite villagers. Once they 
passed a long string of Circassians, men, women, and 
children, transplanted on a sudden from Europe, that 
they might slay and be slain in quarrels with the Arabs 
beyond Jordan, and so contribute to the peace of their 
lord the Sultan. Such things were events in the travel- 
lers’ quiet life. Quiet it was ; and yet the healthy move- 
ment onward, far apart from all the movements of the 
troubled time, had a peculiar charm, which they all felt 
in some degree. All day they rode on pathless levels ; 
on barely-marked tracks ; on dry water-courses. In the 
evening, resting in their tents, they would wonder what 


dick’s wandering. 


179 


was going on in the busy world ; how this man was get- 
ting on ; if that man were engaged yet ; what was the ex- 
act state of things political To this last question the 
excitement which they had left behind in England lent 
peculiar fascination. It was probable that in the world 
of journals and of politicians wonderful rumors were fly- 
ing about. Not a letter nor a paper could by any means 
reach them — not a rumor. Any evening, as they sat 
silent or idly speculating, a battle might be raging, 
which would alter the face of Europe. . At that moment 
the old empire of the Turks might be even at an end ; 
and who could foretell the consequences ? Fabian would 
lash himself to excitement over the extraordinary con- 
trast between his ignorance of events and the events 
which might already be. What if the armistice were 
ended, and the Russians already in Stamboul ? What 
if the future of this very land, in which he stretched his 
legs after a long day’s riding, were already settled ? He 
gave his imagination free play, till Ossie nearly yawned 
his head off, and Dick said for the hundredth time that 
they were sure to find news at Damascus. If there were 
a British protectorate of Palestine, it would help his 
plan of purchasing an estate there. And then friend 
Fabian would wax eloquent on the awakening from so 
long sleep ; on the blossoming of the wilderness ; the ex- 
tinction, by fire if necessary, of the accursed usurer, and 
of the pasha’s tax-gatherer. He always returned to 
Dick’s plan of land-purchase with a double portion of en- 
thusiasm. He expressed an absolute reverence for his 
friend. He enjoyed this feeling of all things. Oxford 
with all its professors had afforded him no object of rev- 
erence. London, Europe, the Round World itself had 
failed to supply him with a personality sufficiently ven- 


180 


dick’s wandering. 


srable. But in the pupil, whom he had intended to 
form, he had slowly learned to recognize the Master, 
whom he could follow. This was the rare man — the 
ideal of the Moral Philosopher — who, seeing truly and 
desiring rightly, could not but form the best purpose, 
and translate it incontinently into the best action. Mr. 
Deane hugged himself for joy of this incomparable treas- 
ure. The diver had risen prince-like with his pearl, and 
was conscious in every nerve of its value. What pleas- 
ure could be compared for a moment with the excite- 
ment of watching, even of assisting the experiments of 
this sanguine youth ? What stay was equal to this boy’s 
strong faith ? Fabian announced aloud that he warmed 
both hands at the fire of his friend’s life. Indeed, he 
was always getting up little fires, vigorously puffing with 
the bellows of his enthusiasm, that he might warm those 
nervous restless hands. “ Look at me,” he would cry, 
debasing himself for artistic love of a strong contrast, — 
“ a creature blown about by every wind ; with half-a- 
dozen fragments of faculties ; a napkin full of useless 
talents ; a miserable creature who can do nothing.” 
Thereupon ho would convulsively press his knees upon 
his astonished quadruped, and leaped forward with his 
chin in the air, his eyes flashing, and the manner of a 
victorious paladin. 

Wonderful are the compensations of life. As Fabian 
Deane humbled himself with pleasure more and more 
keen before the feet of Dick Hartland, he himself was 
becoming an object of interest in the eyes of his other 
companion. Ossie fMt a need of talking about liimself 
to somebody ; and, as Dick would only laugh at his sen- 
timent, he began to turn to Fabian, and to forget that 
he hated him. He had acquired a habit of condemning 


dick’s wandering. 


181 


Mr. Deane unheard, for having come between his cousin 
and himself. But habits were mislaid, like gloves, by 
Ossie ; and Dick was not greatly surprised when he saw 
his two companions draw daily nearer to each other. 
Dick knew well enough, when he observed the pathos 
of his cousin’s looks and the wide stern eyes of the lis- 
tener, that a sentimental history was being poured into 
a sympathetic ear. Dick knew that history, so far as it 
was constant ; he was well aware that what had been 
was not always accurately distinguished from what might 
have been ; that the whole tangled skein changed color, 
like a pigeon’s breast, with the angle of the sunlight. 

‘‘ Why have I never known what a charming fellow 
your cousin is ? ” asked Fabian, sternly, one evening. 
“ I have never met a more delightful nature — so frank ! 
lie told me everything about himself — everything ; 1 
might have been his brother; I wish I were. I have 
never had so delightful a compliment as his ready confi- 
dence — never in my life ! ” 

“ I say,” said Ossie, on that same night, as he was un- 
dressing himself on the opposite side of the tent, “ your 
friend Deane is the best fellow I ever met. lie is full 
of soul. I like fellows with souls. And how well he 
talks ! ” 

“ You looked as if you were doing all the talking,” 
said Dick, sleepily, from his bed. 

“ Oh, if you are going to be disagreeable,” said Mr. 
Langdon ; he said no more, until after a few minutes 
he felt constrained to add, That ’s just the difference 
with a really sympathetic chap.” 

“ Good-night, Ossie,” said Dick, and was presently 
asleep. 

‘‘ I wish I had always had such a friend,” murmured 


182 


dick’s wandering. 


Ossie, pathetically ; “ I should have been a better fel- 
low — perhaps.” His sense of pathos would have been 
heightened, had he known that his cousin, whose heart 
should have been melted by his words, was already far 
away in the depths of slumber, and was not even dream- 
ing of him. 


CHAPTER XXVL 


Since dawn they had been riding through a dreary 
land. The plain lay behind them and around them, flat 
and barren, deformed by crumbling stones and squalid 
scrub. The dust rose powdery from their horses’ feet, 
and the fierce hot sun beat downright on their brains. 
They rode without speech, and all about them grim si- 
lence brooded in the fiery air. Then little by little 
a look of listening came into their faces ; it was hard 
to be sure if they heard anything or no. Then little 
by little grew upon the ear a sound of many waters. 
The jaded beasts quickened their pace unbidden. Then, 
like a mirage to a thirsty traveller in the desert, was a 
vision of waving green, a gleam of silver ; and presently 
the three young men were riding by a river, which was 
sparkling here and there below them, hurrying with glad 
rush of shadowed waters through moving shade. There 
was shade all the way ; for in long line on either bank 
slender trees stood close together ; and trees had pushed 
down knee-deep into the stream, drinking refreshment 
and waving their delicate green heads ; even the trees 
seemed to be hastening forward, down to the city of 
fountains. 

Praise be to God,” murmured Fabian, who luveth 
the thirsty land.” 

Tlien they all began to talk ; and presently Ossie fell 
to humming a little French air, eloquent of youth and 
love. And so a little above the happy rushing rivei 


184 


DICK’S WANDERING. 


they rode, with new life and light-hearted, till Piero, 
who was cunning showman enough to present his best 
effects without previous warning, pointed suddenly and 
with dramatic fire up a dusty hill, and said briefly, — 
‘‘From that top, Damascus!” Fabian caught fire in 
an instant, dashed his animal at the hill, and was half- 
way up the slope before Ossie had grasped the drago- 
man’s meaning. 

When they had reached the top, they were all silent 
for a time. The stream of trees by which they had 
been riding came forth beneath them from the mouth 
of the valley, and spread like a large fan, luxuriant and 
freshly green, wide into the dry barren plain. Slender 
minarets rose among the trees ; and everywhere w'as 
the shy gleaming of water. Tired of glare and dust they 
looked down from their barren height upon an earthly 
paradise. • 

After a time Ossie began softly to sing his little 
French romance. Dick got off his horse and loosened 
the girths. Fabian still sat motionless and silent in his 
saddle; and in his mind rose some tale of the young 
Mahomet, gazing down on this city of fair waters, and 
thereafter turning away to the desert and to the choice 
of a paradise more spiritual. 

“ A great sight, sir ! ” said a strange voice. 

They turned and recognized the American traveller 
who had passed them by the fig-tree. A little further 
to the right they could see his horses, and the young 
lady attended by the maid and dragoman. The father 
had come to make friends ; and he had the air of a man 
whose offers of friendliness were always well received. 
He stood upright with his wideawake in his hand, and 
his smile showed a set of teeth very white and regular. 


dick’s wandering. 


185 


Ilis fresh color and clear blue eyes made him look 
younger than he was ; but he was saved from an excess^ 
ive youthfulness by the unconcealed baldness of the top 
of his head. For the rest, his hair was soft and brown ; 
and his face was shaved so scrupulously that, viewed 
in connection with the difficulties of travel and the lazy 
influence of the Levant, it suggested no little care of his 
personal appearance. The admirable cut of the spotless 
nankeen clothes, which hanging loose seemed yet to fit so 
well the tall straight figure, conveyed the same sugges- 
tion. 

Indeed, there seemed every reason why his advances 
should be well received ; and it is certain that he ex- 
pected a good reception. The young Englishmen did 
not disappoint him. Indeed, Mr. Deane, who was given 
to inveigh with quite disproportionate fierceness against 
the Insular reserve and cold manners of his countrymen, 
provoked a look of amused wonder in the tall stranger’s 
blue eyes by the desperate earnestness of his address. 
He did the honors of the view, as if he had never been 
anywhere else. The torrent of words, which seemed to 
trip over each other, of unfinished sentences and eager in- 
terjections which were intended to prove the absence of 
all British pride and suspicion, were comically contrasted 
with the few deliberate utterances of the American. 

Ossie listened to the dialogue with lips softly whis- 
tling ; while Dick was wondering whether the girl, who 
never looked that way, was aware that her father was 
talking to them. He wondered what she was thinking 
about. He fancied that there was something melancholy 
in her air, as she looked away to the city of gardens, 
and beyond the city to the boundless breadth of dusty 
plain. She was so far away that he could not see the 


186 


dick’s wandering. 


expression of her face ; but as he idly watched her, he 
saw her raise a handkerchief for a moment to her eyes. 
He wondered if the action was caused by the dust. 

‘‘I expect that we shall meet again at the hotel,’’ 
said their new acquaintance. 

“ Oh yes,” — “ Of course,” — “I hope so,” said the 
three young men ; and they turned their horses as they 
spoke, and rode away down the hill. 

The hotel, where they alighted in the city of Damas- 
cus, was not as other hotels. All round the large square 
court were crisp green pomegranate shrubs, newly lit 
with little blossoms, like flames, amid the cool shiny 
leaves. Behind this row of shrubs was the shady space 
into which rooms opened on every side ; and above this 
space W'as the wide covered gallery, into which more 
rooms opened in like manner. A railing ran round the 
gallery ; and on this railing a lazy man, or a poet imbib- 
ing the Orient, might lean all day, stare at the liberal 
fountain, which splashed in the sunny centre of the 
court below, and listen to its pleasant music. 

In one of the rooms on the ground-floor a daily din- 
ner was prepared for guests, if there were any in the 
hotel, and for a few European dwellers in the town ; 
and in this sparsely-furnished apartment Dick Ilartland 
and his friends were seated at the long bare table, when 
at the sound of a moving gown they looked up, and saw 
the American girl following her father tln*ough the door- 
way, which was open at that hour to the softened even- 
ing light. There were no ladies in the room ; but the 
young girl came in, as one who is accustomed to the 
eyes of men. She seemed unaware of their looks ; she 
was very neat, cool, and self-possessed. Dick was dis- 
appointed. She was not so pretty as he had expected 


dick’s wandering. 


187 


She was pretty, but by no means beautiful. Yet she 
was pretty. The brown hair looked very soft about her 
fair low forehead ; and the eyes, which were after all 
not blue, but gray, had a pleasant expression of interest 
and candor. Her eyebrows were arched and delicate ; 
and her skin was like the inner side of the rose-leaves. 
Even Dick, who had given little thought to the ways of 
women, knew in a moment why the big veil had been 
worn on the journey. She was pretty — but after all 
no prettier than many other people ; and Dick recog- 
nized this fact with a feeling which was comically like 
relief. As she seated herself at the table, he suddenly 
thought that he was looking at her too long ; but be- 
fore he could withdraw his eyes, her eyes had met them. 
She gave a little grave bow, as to her father’s friends, 
and turned to speak to her father. 

“ What a delightful little turned-up nose ! ” whispered 
Ossie to Dick. 

Hush ! ” said Dick shortly ; “ she ’ll hear you.” 

What ’s the odds ? ” muttered Ossie, unabashed ; 
‘‘ she ’d like it.” 

After dinner Dick went up-stairs to write a letter to 
his mother. After the fulfilment of this duty, as he was 
crossing the great court below, he saw the lamplight 
streaming through the polished leaves of a pomegranate 
from an open door behind it. From the same doorway 
came the sound of voices ; and as he recognized among 
them the impassioned tones of Fabian Deane, Dick 
turned aside and looked into the room. Two swinging 
lamps, which were not too bright, hung from the ceiling, 
and beneath them a little fountain splashed in its shal- 
low basin. Dick saw at a glance that his friends were 
already on the best terms with their new acquaintance 


188 


dick’s wandering. 


On one side of the room the young lady and Ossie were 
chatting pleasantly together, while on the low divan, 
which ran along the opposite wall, Fabian was sitting 
sideways, eager for information, plying his new friend 
with weighty questions about American affairs. lie was 
amazed by the answers which he received. Scorn of 
insular prejudice was his dominant feeling on that day ; 
he had been ready to sing second to the most extrav- 
agant praises of the great Western world, and to accept 
with a sigh the inevitable comparison with the dear 
mother country — the little England who — alas ! — 
was growing old. But how could he sing second, if the 
other would not take the leading part in the pajan ? He 
found himself prompting the American to laudations of 
his country ; and the necessity for this prompting seemed 
to upset all his established views of the Transatlantic 
character. Fabian grew excited, and as his excitement 
increased the other was more critical, more humorous, 
more deliberate. Dick came in with a smile and seated 
himself to listen. 

“ It ’s astounding ! ’’ said Fabian to him ; “ he does n’t 
believe in Liberty, or Equality, or the Constitution of 
the United States, or — or anything.” 

The American laughed, and laid his hand on Dick’s 
arm. “ You must not think too hardly of me,” he said. 
“ Your friend is forcing me to the most heterodox ad- 
missions. I fear that I have scared him badly by my 
doubt if any two babies were ever born equal.” Then 
as he was rather pleased with the sensation which he had 
made, and liked a small but intelligent audience, he pro- 
ceeded to assure them that there was not an educated 
and sensible American, outside politics,” who would 
not limit the franchise, if he could. Then gliding into 


dick’s wandering. 


189 


a more humorous channel he began to tell tliem stories 
about the last political campaign ; of the strategy of the 
Bosses, each in his State ; of the ingenious tactics of the 
city ‘‘ wire-pullers ; ” of the tapping of the barrel ’’ in 
doubtful districts ; of the Irish vote and the consumption 
of whiskey ; of paid agents, and sub-agents, and deputy- 
sub-agents — all voters ; of bulldozers ’’ and “ repeat- 
ers,” and other persons prominent in politics. After- 
wards he spoke with unabated cheerfulness of the taxes 
which he had to pay ; and of the amount of money which 
the erection of a single public building could be made to 
cost under the fostering care of a city government. 

‘AVhat a pernicious, incredible, wholly ghastly state 
of things I ” cried Fabian at last. 

‘‘Well,” said the American, “I suspect that we are 
rather proud of it. It ’s on a big scale. It causes us to 
realize the greatness of our country. We really do 
think that there is no other country which could afford 
to be so badly governed.” 

“ You are the most extraordinary American,” said 
Mr. Deane, as if he were personally offended. 

“ I don’t think I should have known you were an 
American,” said Dick. 

“ I presume that you mean that for a compliment,” 
said their new acquaintance, with another smile. 

“ No,” said Dick, “ I said it because I think it.” 

“ Ah ! That ’s better,” said the other. 

“ If you knew Dick,” said Ossie plaintively from the 
other side of the room, “ you ’d know that compliments 
ain’t much in his line.” 

Dick looked across at Ossie, and saw that the gray 
eyes of the girl, with whom his cousin had been talking 
so busily, were regarding him with a frank, questioning 


190 


dick’s wandering. 


look. As she did not turn her eyes away, he rose and 
walked across the room to her. 

I have been telling your friend,” she said, that he 
ought to go to Newport. lie ’s just the kind of English- 
man to have a good time at Newport. He would be such 
a belle.” 

I shan’t go till you are back in America,” said Ossie, 
with a nod. 

“ When do you think of going back ? ” asked Dick. 

‘‘ I wish you could get her to answer that,” said her 
father. You don’t know the lamentable condition of 
man on our side of the water. We were under the fond 
delusion that we had abolished slavery ; but until the 
American woman is abolished, there will be no freedom 
for American men. I am now being dragged around the 
world — luckily it is not a very large one, as worlds go 
— because this young lady is tired of Boston ; and New 
York ; and Newport ; and tired of dancing the German ; 
of summer picnics ; of winter sleigh-rides ; of ” — 

The girl looked up quickly, with the pretty eyebrows 
raised and the under lip a little pouting. ‘‘ Well ? ” he 
asked. 

As they looked at each other, father and daughter both 
began to smile. Then she put her arm through his, as if 
she would lead him awa}". 

Hold on a minute ! ” he said ; I wish to present 
myself to these gentlemen. My name is Holcroft — 
Henry Holcroft, of Boston ; and this is my daughter 
Kitty — whom I ought to have named first, as she is by 
far the more important person.” 

Then they all laughed, and Dick made haste to intro- 
duce himself and his friends, not without embarrassment. 
Mr. Holcroft bowed to each as his name was mentioned 


dick’s wandering. 191 

assured them collectively of his pleasure at having met 
them, and so departed with his daughter. 

That ’s a clever girl, if you like,” said Ossie. 

The suggestion of cleverness came with a slight shock 
to Dick. He was just thinking what an arch, innocent 
face it was. 


9 


CHAPTER XXVIL 


Dat followed day ; and neither the Ilolcrofts nor the 
three young Englishmen seemed in a hurry to leave 
Damascus. There were reasons enough for delay. The 
American showed a fine taste for inlaid armor and em- 
broidered silks, and spent hours at a time in the narrow 
ways of the Bazar. In that all-day twilight he found 
the atmosphere of antiquity, which, as he liked to de- 
clare, gave him a livelier pleasure than anything else 
which he had experienced in his travels. He would 
stand looking down one of these long shaded alleys, in 
in which perhaps a single shaft of light fell through the 
boards above straight upon a booth of brilliant colors ; 
and standing there he would remind his young friends 
again and again that they might have found the same 
scene — the same in all its details — on any day in any 
year of any century, when they “ had happened to come 
along.” He would admit no limitation to the absolute 
changelessness, with which he pleased his fancy. He 
seemed almost serious in his assertion that the turbaned 
slumbrous sellers, who sat crossed-legged on their booths, 
had sat there when the good Haroun Alraschid was Ca- 
liph in Bagdad. With these same solemn merchants he 
was never tired of making bargains. He rejoiced to see 
them roused to sudden life, like old snakes on the intro- 
duction of a rabbit, by the first suggestion of barter. 
He would furnish his dragoman with new and fantastic 
objections to the thing which he intended to buy, and 


dick’s wandering. 


193 


would listen with childlike pleasure to the protestations 
translated to him. After all his bargaining his only fear 
seemed to be that his attendant, who entered keenly into 
the sport, would insist on the harmless old gentlemen 
parting with their goods too cheap. Indeed, he was so 
generous with his money, that it was not long before the 
court of the hotel became itself a centre of commerce, 
where grave merchants were found motionless and 
smoking at all hours of the day. 

If Mr. Holcroft lingered in Damascus for love of the 
antique, his new friends had even stronger reasons for 
delay. It was pleasant to stay in one place after daily 
journeying, and to talk to new people after so long 
an experience of each other’s conversation ; but these 
reasons were only good enough for Ossie. Weightier 
matters detained his comrades. They had made the ac- 
quaintance of Mr. Cavendish Tisley; and though Mr. 
Tisley had said but little, he has listened with interest 
to Dick’s plan of purchasing an estate in Palestine. 
Cavendish Tisley was a great listener. As he sat atten- 
tive, with his capacious forehead bowed a little forward, 
it was almost impossible not to credit him with great 
powers of thought. He was not tall, but he was very 
solemn and deliberate ; and if he was a little stout, so 
was the great Napoleon. He was almost always booted ; 
he was given to riding through the adjacent country, sit- 
ting solid in the saddle, and staring. His steadfast gaze 
was almost as impressive as his air of attentive listening. 
Why Cavendish Tisley lived in Damascus no man knew, 
— and no woman ; for Mrs. Tisley was content with 
wonder ; and this wonder was part of that vast admira- 
tion with which she regarded her silent lord. The less 
he told her, the more she admired him. She gave him 


194 


dick’s wandering. 


credit for thoughts so profound that they would shatter 
her poor intellect ; for schemes so far-reaching that her 
imagination could not comprehend them. She knew 
that he was a student, or rather a master, of the Eastern 
Question. To his mental powers and to his rides, which 
she gratefully acknowledged to be also good for his 
health, she ascribed his exhaustive knowledge of the 
hardest problem of modern politics. She asked to know 
no more. She watched him ride forth, and come in ; 
and she had his slippers ready, when he divested himself 
of those stupendous boots. A few facts connected with 
the sojourn of Mr. Tisley in Damascus were indeed 
known to a few select persons. It was known that he 
wrote occasional letters to a friend in London. It was 
known, moreover, that this friend was a Member of Par- 
liament. Now this Member never lost an opportunity 
of speaking in any debate connected, however slightly, 
with the Eastern Question ; and he had acquired no 
slight reputation for his knowledge of “ public opinion 
on the spot.” Public opinion on the spot, whether the 
spot in question were in Bagdad, Jerusalem, Stamboul, 
or even in the mountains of Thessaly, was represented 
in the mind of that eloquent legislator by Mr. Cavendish 
Tisley. Mr. Tisley had once talked with an Arab chief 
from beyond Jordan ; and more than once he had paid 
a visit, patronizing and mysterious, to a venerable but 
servile sage and conjurer, who lived near him in Damas- 
cus. To such a man Dick’s plan of buying a few acres 
was of course a small matter. He smiled not unkindly, 
but a little sadly, as if he too would like to be able to in- 
terest himself in these trifles of every day. After twenty- 
four hours he committed himself to the statement that 
it was impossible to say whether the little plan could be 


dick’s wandering. 


195 


carried out or not. When two more days had gone, he 
promised to make inquiries ; and he hinted with due 
solemnity that he must await some secret information 
from Constantinople. Meanwhile at Constantinople it- 
self nothing exciting had occurred. On the downs about 
the city the Russian and Turkish armies confronted each 
other, as they had been confronting each other for many 
weeks. Thei e was no collision ; and the armistice was 
maintained. Fabian Deane would occasionally cry out 
in amazement that after all their journeying w^here no 
news could reach them, after all their mighty specula- 
tions about great events in progress, they had come out 
from the world of wonder to find that nothing whatever 
had happened since they left the world of facts. 

Dick Hartland was quite content to wait for further 
information about the possibility of his purchase. Ossie 
wondered that his cousin, who was so uncomfortably 
energetic, could stay quiet in a place where there was so 
little to do ; and when he expressed his wonder Dick was 
a little surprised himself that he found Damascus so inter- 
esting. There was little to see except flowers and fount- 
ains green trees amid the low white houses ; minarets 
like slender cypresses for life and beauty ; fine oval faces 
of young boys and girls, with faint rose-bloom on clear 
dark skins, delicate straight features, and long, lovely 
eyes ; and the loose, bright-colored raiment of wrinkled 
elders. A string of camels entering a narrow lane of 
the Bazar with dignified look and paces, treading the 
dust mottled by specks of sunlight with their widespread 
silent feet, was the chief event of a day. Certainly 
there was little to do in Damascus, and no objects to 
visit ; and yet Dick found the place interesting. Per- 
naps his contentment was in great part due to the so- 


196 


dick’s wandering. 


ciety of Mr. Holcroft. He felt a strong sympathy with 
his new friend’s good-temper and pleasant humor ; and 
he liked to gain information about American people and 
American land from a man who knew a good deal, 
and told it so pleasdntly. Mr. Holcroft was emphatically 
interesting. Then there was his daughter, too. She 
seemed like her father, and yet unlike. She was not 
always so frankly pleasant. Dick thought that he could 
read the father at a glance ; but the daughter puzzled 
him a little. She did not say much to him ; and when 
he was talking with her father, though she sometimes 
listened with a face bright with interest, she more often 
stood quiet, with an absent look in her gray eyes, and 
perhaps a slight smile on the mouth, which seemed to 
the young man like a rose-bud. Once or twice; when 
he was speaking, his eyes met hers, and his w^ords were 
checked for a moment by her look. It struck him that 
she was not attending to his arguments ; but that she 
was rather regarding him with a calm interest, as if she 
wondered what sort of man he was. He did not ob- 
ject ; he had nothing to hide ; he hoped she thought well 
of him. He did not know what he thought of her, ex- 
cept that she was spoiled by her father. However, she, 
too, was interesting. 


CHAPTER XXVIIL 


One morning Dick came out of his room with a long 
3ay’s idleness before him, and not in the least annoyed 
by the prospect. He was full of life ; and yet he was 
content to do nothing but loaf about, and look at the 
strange people and bright colors, the old doorways in 
shadow, and the camel in the street. Certainly none 
of his relations and friends would have predicted this 
leisurely temper in Dick Hartland. 

Dick went and leaned on the railing and looked down 
into the court, which usually furnished something or 
somebody to look at. Now, however, it seemed to be 
empty ; and the young man was idly noting how sharp 
was the edge of the shadow, which at that early hour 
left but a narrow strip of whiteness on the pavement, 
when he was aware of another spectator. He could 
see Miss Holcroft sitting under the balcony on his left. 
One of the pomegranate tubs had been moved for her 
convenience ; and it had left for her sketching a bit of 
the court, the fountain, and beyond the fountain the 
shrubs and the overhanging gallery. Dick watched 
her a little while, silent in air above her, and smiling, 
childishly enough, with pleasure because she did not 
know that anybody was looking at her. He knew that 
girls were supposed to put on airs and graces when they 
knew that men were looking at them. So he smiled 
to himself, — and he smiled too because she seemed to 
complete the picture before him so prettily. 


198 


dick’s wandering. 


After a time he began humming an old English air ; 
and he was still humming with a delightful conscious- 
ness of well-being, when he strolled down the stairs and 
crossed the court toward the young artist. Miss Hol- 
v^roft did not seem to put on any airs and graces in 
honor of the young Englishman. She paused for a 
moment, with her brush in the air, to give him a little 
nod of welcome ; then she turned her eyes again to the 
scene before her, and even screwed them up a little in 
her elfort to see it exactly as it was. It was clear that 
she was in a very conscientious mood. 

“ You seem to be always at work,’’ said Dick, stand- 
ing leisurely behind her with his hands dropped idle in 
his coat-pockets. 

“ I am tired of doing nothing,” she said ; “ I ’ve been 
doing nothing all my life.” 

“ Not a very long time ! ” murmured Dick ; and, as 
she took no notice of this comment, he added presently, 
“ You went in tremendously for society in America, I 
suppose ? ” 

She pouted, and looked critically at her sketch with 
her head on one side. “ Society went in for me,” she 
said, as she put a touch very carefully on the paper. 

Dick laughed. “ And you did n’t dislike it, I sup- 
pose ? ” he asked. 

“ Dislike it ! I had a splendid time — for two seasons. 
But two seasons are enough for any girl. At the end 
of the second season I knew just what everybody would 
say. They said very sweet things ; but I was tired of 
sweets. I told papa that, if I stayed for a third season, 
I should go mad.” She spoke rather slowly, and she 
paused after every sentence while she attended to her 
painting. Dick had supposed that all American women 


dick’s wandering. 


199 


had high disagreeable voices, but the voice of this girl 
at least seemed sweet and rather low. She laid great 
emphasis on the word “ very,” and the accent on the 
first syllable of “ papa ; ” but trifles such as these seemed 
delicate touches, which for the young Englishman only 
heightened her individuality, her distinction. Dick never 
for a moment supposed that there were many American 
girls like this one. There might be many prettier, or 
cleverer, or more independent ; but this girl was pecul- 
iar. He was sure that, wherever she might be, she 
was not like other girls. Certainly she was interesting. 

“ And don’t you ever sigh for the balls and parties 
and things ? ” asked Dick presently. 

Never,” she answered. “ Cousin Hatty has written 
me all winter whole volumes full of dances — and bou- 
quets — and beaux — and who ’s attentive to who — 
and it ’s very interesting ; but I never wish I was there. 
I bequeathed Hatty all my partners and flowers. When 
I go home, I shall be passee ; I shall do art needle- 
\^ork.” 

“ When do you think you shall go back ? ” 

‘‘ We shan’t go home for at least a year.” 

But don’t you hate missing Newport ? Is n’t that 
the place where they have everything — even hunting 
in summer ? Is n’t it an awfully jolly place ? ” 

‘‘ Newport is heavenly.” 

“ Very well, then ? ” 

‘‘ I told you that I was tired of amusing myself.” 
Sne seemed to be tired of sketching for the time being ; 
for she laid her block on one side. Then she looked up 
at Dick with that little pout of the under lip which he 
was beginning to recognize, and said, “ Ah, Mr. Hart- 
land, I see that you think me frivolous.” At the mo- 


200 


dick’s wandering. 


raeiit Dick was thinking her charming. She seemed so 
frank and natural that they were like old friends. 

“ Not too frivolous,” he said. 

“ I suppose I am frivolous,” she observed with an air 
of gravity. “ I like to feel that I am dressed perfectly. 
I like attentions. That ’s why I could never be happy 
in England.” 

‘‘ Why not ? lam sure you could.” 

“ No. In England the men expect the attentions. 
Would n’t you be shocked, as an Englishman, if I sent 
you for some clean water for my painting ? ” 

“ I should run,” said Dick ; “ but have n’t you painted 
enough ? You are always absorbed in something ? ” 

“ I came abroad to improve myself,” she said. “ You 
are not running very fast; and you needn’t; I won’t 
paint any more. One way of improving one’s self is to 
talk to intelligent foreigners.” 

o o 

‘‘ Thank you for the compliment,” said Dick. 

“ Oh, you don’t know what an interesting specimen 
you are. Mr. Langdon told me that you are a squire. 
I never quite realized that there were squires outside of 
your English novels.” She regarded Dick, who had 
seated himself on the edge of the nearest pomegranate- 
tub, with her frank, straightforward look. He laughed, 
as he assured her that he was not quite sure what a 
squire was. At this she expressed great surprise. 

“ You are a landowner, anyhow ? ” she asked. 

“ Yes,” answered Dick. 

And you ride around your farms ? ” 

“ I sometimes trot over to see a farmer.” 

And you — how do you say it ? — you appoint youi 
minister ? ” 

“ My what ? ” 


dick’s wandering. 


201 


‘‘ Your — pastor — parson ” — 

“ Clergyman,” said Dick. “ Yes, there is a living in 
my gift ; but it ’s disposed of long ago. My mother 
found the parson. My mother ’s rather fond of parsons. 
But you must come yourself and see the place when you 
come to England. You ought to see an English coun- 
try-place, you know; and I ’m sure you ’d like Glaring. 
Everybody likes Glaring.” 

“ Glaring,” she repeated. Glaring ! What a pretty 
name ! Why, it ’s perfectly lovely ! ” She sat musing 
for a minute. “ I wonder if I shall ever go to England. 
I don’t know any English ladies. I should love to know 
your mother.” 

There was something in these last words of Miss 
Ilolcroft which startled Dick. There were certain grave 
tlioughts, which always returned to him at the mention 
of his mother. And now he began to wonder what his 
mother would think of this girl. So far as he knew, 
Airs. Hartland had never spoken to an American ; but 
now he suddenly remembered the very time and place, 
when and where he had heard her speak with grave dis- 
approval of American women as terribly extravagant, 
and caring for nothing but dress and for the attentions 
of men. He seemed to see his mother, as he had seen 
her then, standing in all her severe simplicity, mildly re- 
gretful for the frivolity of the ladies beyond the sea. 

“ Well ? ” said the girl, who had so lately confessed a 
liking for dress and for attention ; and Dick began to 
laugh. 

You can’t go back to the States,” he said, without 
going through England.” 

“ We can go home from Havre,” said she. “ And 
please don’t say ‘ the States.’ If there is a thing I 


202 dick’s wandering. 

cannot endure, it is to hear your countrymen talk about 
‘ the States.’ ” 

“ What am I to say ? ” 

“ Say ‘ America.’ ” 

“ But there are other places in America besides 
your — What shall I call them ? ” 

‘‘ There ’s nothing else that amounts to anything,” she 
said, with her pretty little mutinous air, as she rose and 
picked up her sketch-book and paint-box. 

“ May n’t I carry them for you ? ” asked Dick. 

“ Ah,” she said, with her eyebrows raised, ‘‘ you wisli 
to show me that Englishmen can be polite ; but I wish 
to show you that American girls are not all helpless.” 
She gave him a smile and nod for farewell, and moved 
away, — a light, graceful figure under the shadow of the 
old gallery. 

On the evening of the same day, Dick came in from 
an aimless ramble through the nearest streets ; and as 
he entered the hotel, it occurred to him that he would 
look for Miss Hoi croft. There were several questions 
which he would like to ask her. He was curious about 
social life in America, and her answers were sure to be 
amusing. Indeed, he was already smiling, though he 
did not know it, while he pictured the changes of her 
face as she listened to his questions. He found Mr. 
Holcroft and Fabian Deane smoking with oriental calm 
the tobacco of Latakia, with their coffee-cups fragile as 
egg-shells on the little round table between them ; both 
were silent, and listening to the drowsy music of the 
fountain. Dick made no effort to rouse these energetic 
gentlemen from their unwonted lethargy, but crossed 
the court to the open door of the sitting-room. There 
she was in the corner, which she had made her own ; 


dick’s wandering. 


203 


and there was Ossie by her side. They were so much 
interested that neither noticed the new comer in the 
doorway. Dick turned away with an unusual feeling of 
irritation. For the first time it struck him as unmanly 
in Ossie to trade on his appearance of boyhood and inno- 
cence. He had observed long ago that many women 
treated his cousin as a boy, and admitted him easily to 
a peculiar intimacy on the ground of his harmlessness. 
Formerly he had laughed at this fact ; but now it struck 
him as a little objectionable. He had a vision of the 
little boudoir back-stairs Abbe with lace ruffles. He 
thought that women ought not to be deceived by this 
false air of guilelessness ; certainly clever women ouglit 
not to be so deceived for a moment ; if a clever woman 
did not see through Ossie, the only possible reason was 
that she chose to be blind. Dick had no doubt that Miss 
Holcroft was very clever. She must have seen through 
the imposture of many men. Probably she had had a 
love affair, or two. What more likely than that she was 
abroad on account of something of the sort ? How easily 
the bloom is brushed away from a girl in the bustle and 
crowding of a meanly ambitious society ! How quickly 
she loses that fine maidenly intuition, which warns her 
of the approach of anything not wholly respectful and 
refined. This finest of feminine powers becomes dull. 
She grows accustomed to coarser flavors, to amusements 
ever more and more exciting. To Dick the inevitable 
effect of worldly society on a young woman seemed at 
that moment startlingly clear. No nature, however nat- 
urally fine, could withstand the fatal influence. He felt 
sure that two years ago Miss Holcroft would have shrunk 
from sitting in a corner with a frivolous young man ; 
diat she would have been distressed by his sham senti- 
ment and his sham simplicity. 


204 


dick’s wandering. 


Dick’s thoughts had been following each other with 
extraordinary rapidity ; and he suddenly awoke to the 
fact that they were going very far. He found that he 
was painting the light-hearted cousin, of whom he had 
always been so fond, in very black colors, — and for no 
reason ; for it could hardly be called a reason that he 
had found him talking pleasantly with a young lady in 
the cool of the evening. Dick thought that something 
must be the matter with himself ; but he did not waste 
time in considering his own symptoms. He turned back 
again, and walked with a careless air into the room. 
Ossie stopped his chatter for a moment, nodded, and 
turned again to his companion. If the girl’s gray eyes 
were raised to him, Dick did not notice them. It struck 
him that he was not wanted. He turned over some pho- 
tographs on the table ; he laughed rather loudly at one 
of them, which did not amuse him in the least degree ; 
and then he sauntered out of the room. Just beyond 
the threshold he began to whistle an Italian air inspired 
by the proverbial variability of the sex, but he stopped 
almost instantly. For a few moments he lingered in the 
court, where he could hear the lively talk of the two 
young people, but not distinguish the words. Why 
should he care for the words ? Of course they were 
chattering about dancing and gowns, about Newport and 
Paris. He looked back at the open door, through which 
the light streamed softly ; then he strode across the open 
space, with never a glance for the numberless bright 
stars set so far away, and came to Mr. Holcroft and F a- 
bian. Fabian was aroused from his unusual silence by 
the sight of his friend “ To think that we are in Da- 
mascus ! ” he exclaimed. 

“ Considering the time we have been wasting here,* 


dick’s wandering, 


205 


said Dick, “ I wonder you have n’t found it out before.” 
He meant to speak humorously, but the tone of his voice 
was cross ; and this was so unusual a matter that Fabian 
raised himself in his seat and stared at his friend with 
penetrating eyes. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


When Dick awoke the next morning, his temper was 
cheerful as usual. He vaguely remembered that he had 
been cross on the previous evening, — and for no reason. 
He was in a most interesting place, and with pleasant 
people ; and he meant to enjoy these good things. He 
could not think what had been the matter with him ; he 
did not care to think. As the cool light of early morn- 
ing filled his bare room, his spirits rose higher and higher. 
Perhaps one cause of his elation was that on that day at 
least there was something definite to be done. Mr. Cav- 
endish Tisley had determined to visit a native village, 
which was at some distance from the city. Nobody 
knew why Mr. Tisley wished to gaze on this particular 
village. It was enough that his purpose had been formed ; 
and this purpose was chiefly interesting to some of his 
new acquaintance because he had offered to be their 
guide, if they would ride with him. He had appointed 
an early hour for the start; for it was important to 
reach the village before the sun was very hot, and to 
allow plenty of time for the noontide halt, and luncheon 
in the shade. They were to carry their food on an extra 
beast. Altogether it was emphatically an expedition ; 
and Dick, after leisurely days, was excited by the pi os- 
pect of something to do. 

When they were all assembled outside the city, they 
were so imposing a party that Mr. Tisley would have 
been almost justified in feeling like a colonel of irregu 


dick’s wandering. 


207 


lar horse on active service. He sat silent and round on 
his weedy animal, courteous but grave, and solemnly in- 
spected his troop. The horses of the three young Eng- 
lishmen seemed unusually lively after their late repose, 
and shared the gayety of their riders. Fabian dashed 
through the dust with the air of an Arab at play. Mr. 
Ilolcroft ambled up with his long stirrups, and beside 
him cantered his daughter, with her blue veil drawn 
again about her face. Then Piero and the other drago- 
man began to exclaim vehemently ; Mr. Tisley’s trusty 
attendant started the led horse with the provisions ; the 
great Cavendish himself moved slowly forward ; the ex- 
pedition had started. 

The sight of the blue veil reminded Dick of the day 
when he first saw it, of those pleasant moments when he 
looked from the leaves of a fig-tree and saw a girl ride 
by. He smiled as he thought how important a Western 
girl became in a land where women seemed beings of 
another species. After all there was nothing remarkable 
about this slight American maiden. Dick thought that 
in London she would be merely one of many pretty girls. 
He was certain that nobody would even notice her, if 
Mrs. Torington were present; and he tried to recall his 
cousin Betty’s face, and to see it side by side with that 
of the girl before him. It is probable that he was star- 
ing; for presently Miss Holcroft turned towards him 
with an expression of inquiry. Though her look was 
grave and contemplative, Dick could not help thinking 
that she regarded him with some amusement. Several 
times he had seen her look at him like that, — as if, he 
said to himself, she were observing some rather comical 
specimen. He thought it a little bold; he could not 
reconcile it with his idea of a young girl, — an idea 


208 


dick’s wandering. 


which included a modest dropping of the eyes, when 
they met those of a young man, — but nevertheless it 
excited his curiosity. Now he thought that he would 
ask her what she found in him to laugh at ; but even as 
he moved in his saddle, Ossie rode up to her on the 
farther side, and was greeted with much animation. As 
she reined back her horse, Dick pushed forward and 
joined her father. Riding by the side of Mr. Ilolcroft 
he could not only talk with that pleasant gentleman ; but 
he could also catch occasional fragments of the conver- 
sation which was carried on in front and rear. In front 
he saw Fabian Deane grow more and more excited, as 
he rode close beside Mr. Cavendish Tisley, and spurred 
him to brief oracular utterances. 

‘‘Only a handful of marines?” cried Fabian in great 
surprise ; “ is that all you ’d want? ” and Dick saw Mr. 
Tisley’s nod momentous with the fate of nations. 

“ They can do everything but dress,” said Miss Ilol- 
croft in the rear ; “ ah, but that is very tactless of me ; 
and I do admire them ever so much.” 

“ English girls ain’t bad,” said Ossie, and Dick won- 
dered if he gave a passing thought to Susan Bond. 

“ The Druses ! Yes, yes ? ” asked Fabian eagerly. 

“ They are so strong,” said Miss Ilolcroft, “ and have 
such splendid color ; and they can walk all day ; and 
they ride so well ; and they manage the village schools.” 

“ You have n’t known many of ’em, have you? ” asked 
Ossie. 

“ No,” she said ; “ but I know all about them from 
your English novels.” 

“ Oh,” said Ossie, and he began thinking of the soci- 
ety young ladies of his acquaintance, and lazily wonder- 
ing how many of them had bright color, and could walk 
or ride all day without fatigue 


dick’s wandering. 


209 


‘‘ It would be a revolution ! ” cried Fabian, as if a rev- 
olution were the most desirable of luxuries ; and Cav- 
endish Tisley inclined his head slowly. 

As the sun grew hotter, the party became more silent. 
Even Fabian relapsed into longer periods of burning 
thought, and contented himself more and more with 
gazing at his mysterious companion, in whom he was 
beginning to see one who should mould the destinies of 
Asia. They had left the flowering cactus-shrubs behind, 
and the land, through which they rode, became ever 
more dry and desolate. At last Mr. Cavendish Tisley 
drew rein, and pointed silently to a low dusty hill before 
them. Without a guide they might have passed the place, 
not knowing that it was a village. The low mud hovels, 
of the same color as the earth, scarcely broke the outline 
of the hill. From these human burrows a few lean 
ragged people crept out to look at them with friendly, 
though apathetic faces. Almost all were women and 
nearly naked children ; for the men were scratching the 
ground somewhere, that the fruits of their labor might 
be shared between the Pasha and the city usurers. Of 
these usurers Dick had heard something, which filled 
him with righteous indignation ; and now, as he looked 
at these patient half-starved faces, he was obliged to re- 
lieve his feelings by abusing these money-lenders to Mr. 
Holcroft. 

“ They get some scoundrel of a vice-consul to natu- 
ralize them,’’ he said ; “ and then they use the bullying 
power of their adopted consulate to extort their twenty 
per cent ; and that ’s what the Great Powers do for the 
benefit of these poor barbarous Orientals.” 

“ You don’t mean so ? ” said the American, who in- 
deed could scarcely believe this discreditable fact. Mr. 


210 


dick’s wandering. 


Tislej had turned his head to hear; he neither con- 
tradicted nor confirmed the statement of this young 
man, but his heavy face assumed the expression of one 
who could tell far stranger tales if he chose. He turned 
his head back again, and sat staring at the village, at 
which he had come forth to stare. For all his indigna- 
tion Dick almost laughed aloud, as he looked at the 
stout gentleman sitting solid on his weedy Arabian, and 
marked the weight of thought on his brow. It struck 
him, as it had struck him once or twice before, that Cav- 
endish Tisley’s observations of the country were a little 
interfered with by intrusive thoughts of his legs and 
their appearance in those portentous boots. From Mr. 
Tisley Dick’s eyes wandered to the place where Miss 
Hoi croft sat, withdrawn a little from the party. While 
he was speaking of the usurers to her father, he had all 
the time been conscious that she too was listening. He 
was a little annoyed by the fact that, when she was 
present, he could not help thinking of her. Though 
she were silent, and even when he would not look at 
her, she seemed to make her presence felt in a perplex- 
ing manner. She made him think of her ; and she made 
him think of himself, — and this was annoying to him, 
because it was one of his theories that in a world which 
furnished so much food for thought it was a waste of 
precious time to think about one’s self. However, since 
the girl would by no means be ignored, he allowed his 
eyes to wander in her direction. She turned her head 
at once and looked at him ; and he saw with surprise 
the bright tears on her eyelashes. She was sorry for 
these poor people ; and he felt a quick sympathy with 
her sorrow. The next moment he was annoyed again ; 
for she continued to regard him with a pretty mutinous 


dick’s wandering. 


211 


look, as if she were asking him what he thought of her 
^l^^and telling him at the same moment that she cared 
116^^ jot what he thought. Dick said to himself im- 
patiently that this girl studied effects. Nobody else had 
seen her tears, for he was between her and the rest of 
the party ; he thought that her position had been deliber- 
ately chosen. A minute later she was talking gayly to 
Ossie, as they all rode briskly forward to the halting- 
place. Not far away there was a little cluster of palms 
by the fountain ; and in the shadow of these stately 
trees Mr. Tisley’s dusky attendant, assisted by the drago- 
mans, had prepared the light repast 

They were all rather silent as they rode homeward, 
thinking many thoughts. One thought recurred again 
and again to Dick Hartland, — it was high time to leave 
Damascus. He wondered how he could have lingered 
there so long, when he might have hurried onward to 
Constantinople, and seen the Russian troops at San 
Stephano. It was likely enough that he would never 
have another chance of visiting Stamboul at a moment 
so exciting. As for his plan of buying a parcel of Syr- 
ian land, he felt more and more doubtful whether he 
would gain either information or assistance from the 
gi'eat Cavendish. He thought that he had been strangely 
stupid, because he had not perceived long ago that he 
could learn more in Pera about the future of Palestine, 
and the possibility of his model farm. When they drew 
near to the city and the shadows were lengthening, he 
had made up his mind to delay no more. He would 
speak to his companions that evening ; he did not sup- 
pose that they would raise any serious objections ; he 
felt sure that neither of them was doing any good there , 
besides, both had acquired the habit of acquiescing in his 
arrangements. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


The excellent reasons for leaving Damascus with 
which Dick Hartland favored his friends did not pro- 
duce that prompt agreement which he had expected. 
Fabian and Ossie had come to his room, as he asked 
them to do ; but when he told them of his wish to depart 
on the next day, neither seemed in a huriy to express 
approval of the plan. On the contrary, Ossie sat down 
in silence on Dick’s portmanteau and looked sulky ; and 
Fabian, after contemplating his former pupil for a min- 
ute with stern eyes, began to walk up and down the 
room with his hands behind his back and his lips pressed 
tight together. 

‘‘ Well,” said Dick to Ossie with an encouraging man- 
ner, “ don’t look as if you ’d lost all your friends.” 

Ossie muttered something, from which his cousin 
gathered that he doubted if he had any friends, and 
rather thought that he was not allowed to make any. 

“ I can’t understand you,” cried Fabian suddenly, 
stopping short in his walk and glaring at Dick ; “ I 
thought you were so keen about this plan of yours.” 

“ I want to do the thing, if it can be done,” said Dick. 

And yet you want to leave this place, where, accord- 
ing to universal consent, is the one man who knows 
what can be done in Palestine and Syria ; the one man 
who can help you to do the thing, when he has once 
pronounced that the thing can be done.” 

“ When ! ” echoed Dick, with a smile which seemed 


dick's wandering. 


213 


to the other too frivolous for the subject. Fabian was 
irritated. ‘‘ And what do you want to go for ? ’’ he 
continued, stopping again in his walk and wheeling 
round upon his friend. Because some great show 
may come off at Constantinople, and you not be there 
to see ? Do you want to gape, like a tourist, at a battle 
or an occupation ? If there is a battle, what can you 
do ? What can you do, if the Russians march into 
Constantinople ? Gape like a venerable Cookite at a 
Raree show ? I can't understand you, who are so 
practical, so eager to do something, and who actually 
have a plan for doing something which ought to keep 
you here — on the spot — which — no, it beats me, I 
confess.” And here Mr. Deane shrugged his shoulders, 
strode to the window, and stared into the darkness. 

Then Mr. Langdon from his place on the portmanteau 
lifted up his voice in turn. “ It does seem absurd,” he 
complained, “ to go just when one has found at last 
some decent people to talk to.” 

Dick looked from one friend to the other. lie hardly 
believed yet that the opposition was serious. As he 
regarded his cousin’s pathetic expression, he was the 
more determined to bear him away. It occurred to him 
that it might not be so easy to break off Ossie’s idle 
flirtation at a later stage of growth. He must cut it 
down at once. When everything was ready, he was 
sure that Ossie would go with him, probably protesting, 
possibly sulky, but certain to go. So he turned to 
Fabian, or rather to Fabian’s back, for his face was 
still persistently turned to the darkness of the street. 
“ I think,” said Dick, that I am much more likely to 
find out at the Embassy at Therapia about the proba- 
ble state of Palestine. The more I think of it, the less 


214 


dick’s wandering. 


likely it seems that the country will be sufficiently quiet 
for starting a farming experiment ; but any way, Thera- 
pia ’s the place to make inquiries.” 

“Oh, if you prefer official information,” said Mr. 
Deane, with an accent of superb scorn on the word 
“ official,” “ to the advice and assistance of a man who 
knows Palestine — w ho knows it like his own back-yard 
— of course there ’s no more to be said.” 

“ To tell you the truth,” said Dick, “ I ’m getting 
very skeptical about the great Cavendish. Mr. Holcroft 
says he ’s a booted fraud.” 

INIr. Deane looked at his friend as if he had spoken 
blasphemy. “ Of course,” he said solemnly, “ if you 
quote a man who ’s utterly cynical ” — 

“ Cynical ! He ’s the most genial man I ever met, 
and I thought you were devoted to him.” 

“ I don’t pretend not to like him ; but he has no faith. 
Hear how he talks about the great principles of his own 
country — how — he — does n’t do anything, and he 
does n’t believe in anybody else doing anything ; and 
wffien he meets a man of force — Holcroft ! ” 

The contrast between Mr. Holcroft and Mr. Tisley 
seemed to be too great for more complete expression. 

“ The man of action has n’t done anything that I 
know of,” said Dick. 

There was more sorrow than anger in the gaze which 
Fabian fixed upon his friend. “ I am sorry for this,” 
he said ; “ I ’ve not been blind to it ; I ’ve seen it grow- 
ing — this unworthy distrust — this — if I could only 
tell you some part of what he has told me — of plans 
which include the cooperation of the great Arab tribes, 
of the Druses, of English marines — but unfortunately 
my lips are sealed. He is full of great thoughts ; and 


DICK'S WANDERING. 


215 


if you would only come into the thing heartily, there 's 
nobody could help him like you. I know you, Dick ; 
and with this man you might — you might — good 
heavens ! there ’s no knowing what you might not do ! ” 
There ’s one thing I ’m going to do,” said Dick, 
and that is to leave this place to-morrow.” 

“ Then there ’s no more to be said.” After this sol- 
emn declaration of the uselessness of speech, and a brief 
pause distinguished by a silence even more full of solem- 
nity, Mr. Deane broke forth and spoke for half an hour, 
almost without cessation, vehemently, eloquently. As 
he spoke, he became much excited by the pictures which 
he drew. He walked up and down, glaring, occasion- 
ally even gesticulating, as he fancied Syria and Pales- 
tine redeemed by the joint action of Cavendish Tisley 
and Kichard Hartland, and the whole land one garden 
for fertility on the model of the latter’s model farm. 
Dick’s little scheme was by no means to be dropped ; 
but it was to be part of some great plan, of which the ac- 
count was sufficiently fragmentary and mysterious. But 
Fabian believed in this great plan for the regeneration 
of the East ; it was all complete in one colossal mind ; 
there was only one Tisley, and Fabian on that even- 
ing was his prophet. What glowing visions he beheld ! 
To what great hopes did he abandon himself in a frenzy 
of self-abandonment ! At last, when he had worked 
himself up to the greatest possible heat, he began to 
cool by degrees ; and under the influence of the reaction 
he slowly passed, as he too often did, to depreciation of 
himself. Dick might do so much to help the great Cav- 
endish ; Dick was so sensible, so prudent, so wise and 
good ; all that he, Fabian, was good for, was to exhort, 
to entreat, to implore his friend not to abandon the great 
10 


216 


dick’s wandering. 


work. ‘‘ I shall stay here,” he said, with great determi^ 
nation, whether you stay or go ; but what can I do ? 
I know myself — none better ; a sensitive, excitable 
creature ; in a fever when I ought to be cool. If I see 
the right thing, I do the wrong thing ; I trip at the crit- 
ical moment. Even now, if I had force, if I could 
impose my will, I would weld you, Dick, to this man, 
whom we have found here, with his gigantic mind rust- 
ing in this motionless corner ; and you and he together 
should — should move the world. And instead of being 
strong to do this, 1 am weak as water ; I dash myself 
against you like the wave on the rock. Yes, you are a 
rock. When you and he are together, instead of being 
able to weld, I am myself shaken like a reed ; I am all 
nerves ; I know him to be great and good ; I love you 
more than any one in the world ; and yet, when you are 
together, I feel your cold mutual distrust in every nerve. 
Together you torture me — it ’s combinations of people 
that torture sensitive creatures — poor weak creatures ; 
it ’s something to know one’s self a fool ; good-night, 
Dick — no, I can’t stop, and I can’t go with you — 
good-night, and God bless you.” The last words came 
back with a sort of sob from the gallery, whence Fa- 
bian was already dashing for the stairs. 

It was not the first time that Dick had seen Mr. 
Deane under the influence of great excitement. He 
followed him out of the room, and he called “ Good- 
night ” after his flying figure with a voice full of friend- 
liness. Then he came back and looked with a smile at 
Ossie, who was still sitting silent on the portmanteau. 

‘‘Well, he’s mad anyhow,” said Ossie, as if he de- 
rived some faint unholy consolation from this belief. 

^ The first thing in the morning,” said Dick, “ I shall 


dick’s wandering. 217 

look up Piero ; aud as soon as he can collect the men 
and beasts, we ’ll start.” 

I don’t think I shall go,” said Ossie, ruffling his 
brows and pouting. 

Dick thought that he was imitating an expression of 
Miss Holcroft, and turned shortly on his heel. “ Good- 
night,” he said. 

At this hint Mr. Langdon slowly rose from his hum- 
ble seat. He stood first on one foot, then on the other. 

Mind, I don’t promise to go,” he said. 

Piero shall come back for you if you don’t ; but 
you ’ll come ; you ’ll think better of it in the morning.” 

“ No,” said Ossie, as sullenly as he could say it, ‘‘ I 
sha’ n’t promise.” 

Good-night,” said Dick. 

“Mind, I haven’t promised,” said Ossie, from the 
gallery outside. 

“ You go to bed,” said his cousin, shortly, and he shut 
his door. 

The next morning Dick was up betimes. He found 
Piero, and went with him in search of the other men. 
They could not start early, but Dick was determined 
that he would not sleep another night in Damascus. 
When the necessary orders had been given, and the 
preparations were going forward, he had leisure to think 
of his friends. He had little doubt but that both Fa- 
bian and Ossie would go with him ; but he soon found 
that he was at least partly mistaken. He found Fabian 
at the door of the hotel, and he saw at once that he was 
very determined. Mr. Deane looked tired, as if he had 
spent a restless night ; but his lips were tight set and his 
eyes sombre. He was silent and dark, as a volcano 
after an eruption. When Dick asked him his intentions. 


218 


dick’s wandering. 


he answered briefly that he should stay where he was 
for the present, and that he would write to the care of 
the British Embassy at Therapia. Dick reminded him 
that their troop were to be dismissed at Beyrout, and 
offered to send Piero back to him ; but he declined the 
dragoman ; he was to be the guest of Mr. Cavendish 
Tisley. There was clearly no room for argument. 
Dick asked where Ossie was, but Fabian had not seen 
him. Then he inquired for the Holcrofts, and learned 
with a momentary disappointment that they had gone 
away for the day with a consular friend. The next 
minute, however, he congratulated himself on not hav- 
ing to say good-by. He charged Fabian to say all sorts 
of friendly things for him. By this time he was impa- 
tient to be on the road. 

And now Dick’s patience was sorely tried. He hunted 
high and low for his cousin, and could not find him. He 
began to think that he had hidden himself for love of 
mischief. At last the whole cavalcade appeared in the 
road, — men and mules and asses ; and with them Piero, 
alert upon his little horse, delighted to have people to 
direct once more, shouting, flourishing his whip, and 
wheeling in the dust. Then a few lazy Orientals squat- 
ting in the shadow of the house saw the young English- 
man stamping in the sun, and wondered. Dick was on 
the point of sending the dragoman and his second in 
command to scour the city in different directions, when 
Ossie came lounging down the street with a cigarette in 
his mouth. In the distance he seemed to be smiling 
with great good-humor; but as he drew near he re- 
sumed a dejected air. However, he made no further 
objections to departure. Finding that all his goods 
were packed, he said that he supposed he had better go. 


dick’s wandering. 219 

Grumbling softly he allowed himself to be hoisted into 
the saddle. 

Good-by, Fabian ! ” said Dick ; don’t forget to 
write. And don’t forget to say good-by to the Hol- 
crofts.” 

There was something in this last charge, which seemed 
to amuse Mr. Langdon. He turned his head away, lest 
Dick should see that he was smiling. 

Good-by,” said Fabian gravely ; and with jingling 
and jolting and strange cries the procession started. 

A week later the cousins were on board a French 
steamer, which lay opposite to the widely-curved shore 
and white houses of Beyrout. They had dismissed the 
dragoman and the sub-dragoman and all their company ; 
they had brought their luggage on board and inspected 
their clean, airy cabins ; and now they sat on the wide 
deck under the motionless awning, and gazed at the still 
blue water. Thus they would be doomed to sit for a 
week or more; for the steamer’s progress was deter- 
mined rather by freight than by passengers, and, as she 
lay now before Beyrout, so would she lie before Lata- 
kia, and Tripoli, and Alexandretta, lazily inquiring for 
goods. 

Not even the prospect of this slow voyage disturbed 
the equanimity of Dick Hartland. As he could not 
make the boat go faster, he congratulated himself that 
he should get a glimpse of Rhodes, and of Smyrna ; 
but the chief reason of his content was that he had left 
Damascus behind him. Looking back on that ancient 
city he felt as if he had been dallying in Capua, growing 
lazy and cross, while events great enough to stir the 
V)lood of heroes were in progress in the world. ^‘It 
seems as if we were to have this ship to ourselves,” he 


220 


dick’s wandering. 


Baid to Ossie, as he got up and went to the vessel’s side. 
‘‘ No,” he added ; “ there ’s a boat coming.” 

“ Is there ?” asked the other lazily and with his pretty, 
innocent air. 

“ Yes. A man and a woman. Hullo ! By George ! 
Ossie ! ” Ossie came to his side. 

It ’s the Holcrofts,” said Dick. 

“ Is it ? ” asked Ossie, after a pause. 

Dick had been staring with all his eyes at the advanc- 
ing boat ; but there was something so strange in the ex- 
cessive indifference of his cousin’s question, that he 
turned upon him in an instant. There was no indiffer- 
ence in the tell-tale face ; it was radiant with suppressed 
glee. 

You knew it ? ” cried Dick, and the question needed 
no answer. “ Well, I ” — he began again, and then he 
began to laugh. Then Mr. Langdon permitted himself 
to laugh also. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


After all, the leisurely coasting voyage was very 
pleasant. Day after day the sea lay flat beneath the 
wide radiance of the sun, with scarce a ripple, and with 
scarce a cloud the curved expanse of heaven was deep 
and blue. Dick and Ossie and their American friends 
had the main deck to themselves ; and there they sat all 
day under the widespread awning, reading or talking, or 
looking with a moment’s interest at some object on the 
empty Asian shore. Almost before he had forgiven the 
Holcrofts for their presence, Dick was congratulating 
himself on it. He was ready to affirm that Mr. Holcroft 
was the pleasantest travelling companion in the world, 
always interested but never excited, ready but not eager 
to talk, with a quiet humor and an indomitable sweet- 
ness of temper. As for his daughter Kitty, Dick told 
himself that he need have no fears about her ; that he 
had only to keep an eye on his cousin. This would be 
something to do ; and he liked to have something to do. 
Very soon he began to think that even this occupation 
was unnecessary. It is true that the young lady seemed 
well content that Ossie should be often near her and 
should amuse her with his intermittent talk ; but she 
was apparently far more interested in her own various 
occupations. She sketched with remarkable industry, 
when the ship lay motionless before some little town, 
which furnished a sharp contrast of light and shadow, 
a tower, a minaret, a palm-tree, or little bits of bright 


222 


dick’s wandering. 


color, where the natives lay or lounged on the low wall 
by the sea. And when there was nothing to paint, she 
produced a volume of the works of Goethe, and com- 
manded Mr. Langdon not to talk. And one day, when 
she was tired of reading, she appeared on deck with a 
guitar ; and it was only after a full hour given to the 
most diligent practising of exercises that she consented 
to play a little air, and to sing therewith a little song, 
which she sang with a very sweet, fresh voice, and a 
simplicity which set Dick wondering. He wondered if 
this simplicity were not a form of consummate artful- 
ness, a superfine affectation. He wondered if women 
could be at once so clever and so simple. This simplic- 
ity agreed well enough with the frankness of her speech, 
and the calm, unabashed looks with which she met the 
eyes of men ; but Dick found it hard to reconcile this 
same simplicity with her experiences of fashionable so- 
ciety, and even more with her undoubted cleverness. 
He felt sure of her cleverness ; she must have seen and 
heard so much of the world ; how then could her sim- 
plicity be genuine ? And yet he did not like to decide 
that she was affected. He wondered if women were not 
wholly different from men. Of course he had heard 
often enough that one must expect contradictory quali- 
ties in a woman ; but he had always put this down as 
part of the nonsense that men talk about women. How- 
ever, no man had ever puzzled him, as this girl puzzled 
him. He could not help wondering about her, though 
he often told himself that it was a ridiculous waste of 
time. 

One evening after dinner when Mr. Holcroft and Os- 
sie were playing chess, Dick left them and went on 
deck. When he reached the upper air, he stood still, 


dick’s wandering. 


223 


amazed by the loveliness of this mid-May night. The 
moon was almost full ; and it seemed to fill the world 
with such softness and splendor, that it was hard to be- 
lieve that this was the same moon which gleamed so cold 
and pale from flying clouds in England far away. Wide 
and tremulous the great path of light lay on the dark, 
silent sea ; and through the silence and the twilight of 
the enchanted hour the ship travelled steadily forward. 
It seemed in harmony with the spirit of the time that 
the faint notes of the guitar came softly to where the 
young man stood. Dick went forward with a slight 
laugh at his own feeling for the beauty of the night. 
Whether she had heard the laugh or obeyed the caprice 
of the moment. Miss Holcroft received the young man, 
who came between her and the moonlight, with a re- 
proachful look ^ and her voice was almost petulant as 
she said, ‘‘ I cannot play when you come ; you para- 
lyze me.” Dick found nothing better to say than that 
he was awfully sorry. ‘‘ Yes,” she continued ; you are 
so critical.” 

‘‘ No, no,” said he ; at least not too critical, I hope. 
I promise not to criticise your playing, if you will play 
for me.” 

“ You are very observant ; and very critical ; and 
you” — 

Do play something.” 

‘‘ And you hate talking about yourself,” she said, 
well pleased to give an unexpected ending to her sen- 
tence. 

Dick laughed, but he felt himself flush ; he felt that 
she was not far from the truth ; she was certainly clever. 
“ There are so many better things to talk about,” he 
said lightly. 


224 


dick's wandering. 


She looked up at him, as he leaned against the ship’s 
side, but she could not see his face, which was in deep 
shadow. Is that what you really think ? ” she asked. 
“ I did not know that you were so humble.” 

“ I hope I have n’t been offensively arrogant — but 
you are making me talk about myself after all. How 
clever you are ! ” 

I wish I were clever,” she said, looking across the 
sea with wide-open eyes. It makes me so mad when 
men call women clever. They either mean that we 
have got some poor little accomplishments — like twang- 
ing the guitar for instance ” — 

Do twang the guitar ! ” said Dick, as she paused. 

“ Or else it means that we are designing, and horrid,” 
she continued. 

Something in Dick’s thoughts made him slow with 
an emphatic denial. 

Perhaps that is what you think of wie,” she said ; 
she looked at him with the pouting lip and the pretty 
mutinous expression. 

He was thinking at the moment that she looked like 
an elf in that strange light, so delicate, fair, and young ; 
as if she might melt into the night, when the moon 
withdrew herself from the eyes of men ; but for all her 
elfin charm her words jarred on him. He did not like 
her to say such things. He did not flatter himself that 
she spoke more freely to him than to other men ; and 
he was not pleased to fancy her demanding what some 
other chance acquaintance thought of her. Then he 
told himself that it was no business of his ; he asked 
himself why he should care how this girl spoke to men ; 
and as there was clearly no reason to be found, he con- 
vinced himself that of course he did not. care. 


dick’s wandering. 


225 


Meanwhile Miss Holcroft seemed to have forgotten 
that her last speech required an indignant denial. She 
was looking across the silent waveless sea, and humming 
softly to herself. Presently she began to touch the 
guitar again ; and at last to a simple accompaniment she 
began to sing, low-voiced, a little German song. There 
seemed to her only hearer a tenderness such as he had 
never noticed in a song before. 

What does it mean ? ” he asked, when he had waited 
a little while in silence hoping for more, and no more 
came. 

‘‘ I will sing it in English,” she said ; a friend of 
mine translated it for me.” 

Dick wondered who this friend was, who could make 
verses for her. He had never made a verse in his life. 
Then the girl sang to the same soft accompaniment, — 

Like to a perfect flower, 

Pure, holy, fair thou art; 

I look on thee, and sadness 
Sinks down into my heart. 

I feel that I must be laying 
My hands upon thy hair, 

And praying God he would keep thee 
So holy, pure, and fair. 

She sang scarcely above her breath ; it seemed as if she 
rather spoke than sang the words, but very sweetly and 
clearly. The softness of the wonderful night, the moon- 
light in the air and on the water, seemed to find a voice 
in the simple music. As Dick looked down on the girl, 
who herself looked so delicate, fiower-like, in the myste- 
rious air, a strange tenderness possessed him. He would 
like to guard this lovely creature, who looked a child, 
from all taint of worldliness He clean forgot that but 


226 


dick’s wandering. 


a few minutes before he had convinced himself that he 
did not care how she spoke to men. At the moment he 
could almost have prayed, that she too might keep the 
innocence and holiness of childhood. But for a sound 
instinct, he too might have laid his hand upon that soft 
brown hair. 

At last Dick Hartland roused himself from a mood 
unprecedented in his career. He felt that he must say 
something to break the absolute silence. It was with 
a change of tone, which was too abrupt, that he asked, 
“ Did your friend Goethe write the verses ? 

“ No,” she said, “ or I should not like them so much. 
I hate Goethe.” She spoke the more strongly for his 
abruptness; she was quick to feel slight variations of 
tone or manner. Dick laughed at her uncompromising 
declaration. “ How cynically you laugh ! ” she said. 

“ No, no,” said Dick ; “ nobody ever called me cyn- 
ical. I hate cynicism.” 

She looked seaward again and was silent for a time. 
Then she said seriously, and with a slow emphatic nod 
of her head, “ Some day you will discover that you are 
profoundly cynical about women.” 

“ Women ! women ! ” said Dick ; “ I begin to think 
that women are the most puzzling things in the world.” 

“ Your friend Goethe made a study of them,” she 
said ; ‘‘ and that 's why I don’t like him. He did not mind 
hurting them, if he amused himself ; and he talked 
about improving himself. He looked down on them, 
like stepping-stones in a stream ; he went away dry-shod 
himself, and there were they left behind, and — and he 
talked about self-culture, and it was nothing but flirta- 
tion.” She laughed and nodded decisively, as if she 
triumphed in this neat conclusion to her little speech. 


dick’s wandering. 


227 


Dick laughed too. “ I don’t know much about Goe- 
the,” he said ; but don’t you suppose there were two 
sides to the question ? ” This was a favorite phrase of 
Mr. Hartland. Perhaps these German girls ” — he 
began again. 

‘‘ No,” she said, interrupting him ; it was flirtation. 
Are you a flirt, Mr. Hartland ? ” 

This question came to theg^oung man with a shock, 
which was extremely unpleasant. Pie said nothing, but 
he looked down darkly, as if he would try to read her 
face, which was uncertain in the growing dusk. Though 
he could not distinguish her expression, he had an in- 
stinctive belief that there was demure amusement in her 
eyes and mouth. He had very seldom been laughed at ; 
it seemed absurd that this quick-witted young lady 
should turn him into ridicule. So he answered with his 
lightest manner, and reminded her that she had found 
out how unwilling he was to talk about himself. ‘‘ Was n’t 
it you,” he asked, “ who said that you had come abroad 
to improve yourself ? What do young ladies mean by 
self-culture ? Do you gain much information from my 
cousin Ossie for instance ? ” 

“ Mr. Langdon is charming,” she said with a medi- 
tative air ; he is very unEnglish.” 

“ Thank you,” said Dick. ‘‘ Anyway, I am glad he 
persuaded you to come on to Constantinople.” 

Miss Holcroft turned quickly to him. “ O Mr. Hart- 
land,” she began, and then she paused as if she were 
too astonished to go on. ‘‘ Do you really think,” she 
said at last, “ that we followed you ? ” As he hesitated, 
she went on quickly. ‘‘We had just heard,” she said, 
“ from our legation that it was safe to go to Constan- 
tinople, and we told your cousin that we were going ; 


228 


dick’s wandering. 


and then he told us that you were going too ; and he 
said the prettiest things, and — O Mr. Hartland, you 
have given yourself away. I had no idea of the vanity 
of Englishmen.” 

Dick felt that he had said the wrong thing. He did 
not see that there was anything offensive in his speech, 
but he felt that she saw it. Though she was half laugh- 
ing as she spoke, she wa^ a little indignant too. Dick 
made haste to remind her that at least he had not flat- 
tered himself that he had anything to do with her de- 
cision ; but Miss Holcroft seemed not to heed his words. 
She had risen, and was listening with the pretty head, 
of which by this time only the outline was visible, 
turned away from him. 

‘‘ Kitty ! ” called Mr. Holcroft, and his tall form ap- 
peared through the growing darkness. She went to 
her father. 

Good-night ! ” said Dick with great politeness. 

Good-night,” she said with a little bow, as she took 
her father’s arm. 

Good-night,” cried Mr. Holcroft pleasantly, as he 
was led away. 


CHAPTER XXXIL 


When Dick woke the next morning in his narrow 
bed, there was no sound of machinery in his ears, but 
only the voice of Mr. Holcroft calling blithely in the 
passage. After a knock at the door the fresh, clean- 
shaved face appeared, as the tall gentleman stooped in 
the doorway. Hurry up,” he said, and come and 
coffee. The captain goes ashore in less than an hour, 
and has asked the pleasure of our company.” 

All right,” said Dick ; “ where are we ? ” 

“ At Rhodes,” he answered, in the shadow of the 
world-renowned Colossus.” 

It was with no expectation of seeing that long lost 
wonder of the world that Dick made haste to dress 
himself. He was thinking rather of the girl who had 
sung in the moonlight; he was wondering in what 
mood he should find her. He felt a slight pleasurable 
excitement at the thought of seeing her again, and mak- 
ing his peace, as he was sure he should make it, easily 
enough. 

Miss Holcroft was very quiet and demure. She sat 
very close to her father in the boat ; she looked and lis- 
tened, but scarcely spoke a word. Her father was in 
the gayest humor, as glad to go ashore as a midshipman 
on a holiday. It was a delightful morning, with all the 
freshness still in the air and a taste of the sea, though the 
hot sun was rising over the trees, and the shadows of the 
square white houses lay black upon the ground. But Mr. 


230 


dick's wandering. 


Holcroft’s pleasure did not reach its height till he came 
to the top of the famous Street of the Knights. There he 
stood still, and after a time he waved one long arm, and 
pointed, and looked at his companions. “ Why in thun- 
der,’’ he began slowly and emphatically, “ did nobody at 
home tell me of this thing ? ” Though the question was 
indignant, he smiled while he asked it, and showed all 
his even white teeth. “ That is worth coming all the 
way to see,” he continued. That street leads straight 
into the Middle Ages ; that is the greatest street in the 
world.” 

As he looked round cheerfully for acquiescence, his 
daughter met his eye demurely and murmured, “ Beacon 
Street ? ” 

Mr. Holcroft laughed aloud. “Well,” he said “this 
is older ; ” and then possessed by a happy thought, he 
added, “ Sit right down and make me a drawing.” 

She looked at him with pretended astonishment at his 
arbitrary tone, and then she smiled too. “ I must sketch 
it from the other end,” she said. So they walked down 
the slope ; and Dick, who had been carrying the camp- 
itool and sketch-book, as a sort of mute apology for his 
clumsy speech of the evening before, placed them where 
he was bidden. He was thinking what a perfect under- 
standing there was between father and daughter, and 
that she never looked so pretty as when she looked at 
her father. While he was thinking of something pleas- 
ant to say, Ossie slipped by his elbow and bent over the 
sketch, which was already begun. At the same time 
Mr. Holcroft, whose interest in the place had by no 
means abated, laid a long hand on Dick’s shoulder, and 
began to push him up the slope again, pointing out to 
him with the same emphasis the unique charm of the 


dick’s wandering. 


231 


Btreet. The street is steep and narrow, and on either 
hand the dark, Gothic buildings rise continuous ; and in 
one place an arch is thrown across it, a mysterious pas- 
sage-way between two grim dwellings. On the old 
brown walls the knightly coats of arms are clear, as if 
they had been sharply chiselled yesterday ; for in that 
air the decay of stone is slow, nor has the Turk desire of 
any change. Indeed, the only signs of Turkish rule are 
two or three light trellised windows thrust through the 
sober walls. Those old knights might be in these 
houses now,” said Mr. Holcroft beaming on them impar- 
tially, and pressing Dick’s shoulder with his strong fin- 
gers ; but at the moment the young man’s eyes had wan- 
dered down the narrow street, to where another young 
man leaned over a girl’s drawing with the sunshine on 
his hair. For now the Eastern sun was charming the 
ancient street from its sobriety ; and the sketcher found 
employment for her swain by making him hold her large 
white umbrella over her dainty head. In spite of the just 
and emphatic observations of Mr. Holcroft, it is to be 
feared that the peculiar charm of this old knightly 
street, so serious and dignified in an island full of bright- 
ness and blossom, was not more than half apparent to 
the eyes and mind of Mr. Richard Hartland. 

At last, after many wandering glances, Dick looked 
once more, and saw that Miss Holcroft had left her 
place and was coming up the street, while Ossie stood 
alone by the empty camp-stool. As the girl came near, 
he saw that the faint rose of her cheek was heightened, 
and her eyes were bright. She put her hand on her 
father’s arm, and for a moment leaned against his shoul- 
der, as she put her sketch into his hand. Mr. Holcroft 
looked at the little work critically ; and then he passed 


232 


dick’s wandering. 


it on to Dick without a word, but with a smile full of 
unhidden pride. Slight as it was, the little sketch had 
caught the spirit of the place; and the young man 
thought yet once again, how clever this girl was. As 
they stood there together, and Ossie came toward the 
group with the camp-stool hanging from a listless hand, 
they were aware of a French sailor hurrying with much 
animation. He came to tell them that the captain had 
found no addition to his cargo, and was already getting 
up steam. 

‘‘Ask your captain to wait till I bring along this 
street. I shall take it home and set it up on the Com- 
mon.’’ Mr. Holcroft spoke gravely, but as he used his 
own language, the sailor only turned his brown face 
with inquiry and with eyes and ear-rings twinkling, and 
then with a courteous bow led the way to the boat. 

It was in the evening of the same day, when they 
were steaming steadily forward over the dreaming sea, 
that Dick saw Ossie coming to him with an air most 
woe-begone. This long face always meant that Mr. 
Langdon needed consolation; but now the smile, with 
which his cousin always met it, came less readily than 
usual. Ossie had come to confess a most unlucky error. 
As he was leaning over Miss Holcroft’s sketch that 
morning, he had said something — better left unsaid; 
and she had been much offended. Then Dick remem- 
bered the look of her face, as she had come to her 
father. Ossie also was offended — mightily offended. 
He could not understand it; the fatal something was 
absolutely nothing; it was too absurd of her to object 
to it. “ It ’s the sort of thing,” he said with a growing 
sense of injury, “that I’ve said to lots of girls; and 
she was so jolly ; I never dreamt of her minding ; I ’ve 


dick’s wandering. 233 

said that sort of thing to awfully nice girls who ain’t 
a bit fast.” 

I know you think you may say anything to women,” 
said Dick severely. 

‘‘But this wasn’t anything. I’ll tell you what I 
said.” 

“ I don’t care what you said.” 

Ossie looked at his cousin pathetically. 

“ What did she say ? ” asked Dick after a pause. 

“Nothing. She just got up and went away; and 
now she ’s awfully polite.” 

“ It ’s probably all right.” 

“ What do you mean by all right ? ” asked Ossie in 
an injured tone. 

“ It ’s just as well that you should n’t be on such inti- 
mate terms with — with her.” 

“ Do you mean that you don’t think she ’s a nice 
girl?” 

“ Certainly not,” said Dick shortly ; “ of course I 
mean nothing of the kind.” 

“ Very well then ” — began the other slowly ; but by 
this time Dick was possessed with his common sense 
of responsibility for his cousin, and he made haste to 
say what he thought he ought to say, though he liked 
it very little. 

“Of course a girl may be perfectly nice,” he said, 
“and all that, and well-behaved, and yet be frivolous 
and flirtatious and — and in fact — but of course it can’t 
do you any harm.” 

The speech was not a model of clearness, but it seemed 
to convey a meaning to the other young man, though he 
kept silence for a time, and only bit his thumb. At last 
he said with unusual decision, “She ain’t frivolous.” 


234 


dick’s wandering. 


Dick’s short laugh expressed a feeling that Mr. Lang- 
don measured frivolity by a peculiar standard. ‘‘ She 
shocks you/' said Ossie. ‘‘ She does it on purpose.” 
Dick looked quickly and keenly at his cousin, who con- 
tinued, not without secret amusement, “She told me 
so ; she said it was great fun to shock you. She has 
taken no end of trouble to remember the slang of some 
Yankee college ; and that ’s why she says things are 
‘ tony ' and that they ‘ take the cake/ and all that. She 
says that you think that all girls should be exactly like 
English girls. She says that you are insular, — ^ just as 
insular as you can be ’ is what she says.” 

Dick was half amused and half annoyed. “ Any way 
you may leave me out of the question,” he said ; “ and 
to-morrow morning you ’ve got to apologize, and to mind 
what you say for the future.” 

“But I don’t understand it. If an English girl was 
as jolly and friendly, one might say anything to her.” 

“ She is n’t English, — and it does n’t matter whether 
you understand it or not.” 

“It’s all very well for you; but just think of me. 
Think what a difference it makes to me.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” asked Dick impatiently ; 
“ what can it really matter to you whether she snubs 
you a little or not ? ” 

“ I ’m awfully hard hit,” said Ossie, gloomily. 

Here was a most perplexing person. Even Dick, 
who was fortunate in a long and varied experience of his 
cousin, was amazed at this last declaration. Though he 
had observed a series of scenes which he took to be parts 
of a comedy of mild flirtation, he had had no fear of 
any serious complications. lie had quietly made up his 
mind to keep an eye on Ossie, and to pull him up short 


dick’s wandering. 


235 


if it should ever be necessary. And now under his 
watchful eye and unrestrained by his guiding hand the 
contradictory youth had taken the plunge, and was al- 
ready in deep water. It was necessary to drag him out. 
Dick thought that he must take strong measures. He 
threatened to abandon the delinquent. ‘‘ It ’s no busi- 
ness of mine,” he said. 

“ No, I suppose not,” said the other mournfully. 

‘‘I don’t even pretend to know,” continued Dick, 
whether you are a free man ; whether you are engaged 
to Miss Bond or not. What earthly right have you to 
go falling in love all over the place ? ” 

Perhaps this question was scarcely consonant with the 
previous declaration of neutrality. Certain it is that, in 
spite of its indignant tone, Ossie seemed to take heart 
of grace from it. 

But I can’t help it,” he said plaintively. 

‘‘You ought to help it. It ’s preposterous to go fall- 
ing in love with every girl you see.” 

“ I know it ’s weak,” acknowledged Ossie ; “ but I 
can’t help it. You know I don’t make any pretences.” 
In this speech there was a slight flavor of satisfaction 
with his moral humility, which drove Dick to say with 
unnecessary vehemence that he devoutly wished that 
he would pretend to something. Ossie shook his head 
gravely : “ It ’s a great misfortune to be made like me,” 
he said ; “ I don’t pretend to strength, or pluck, or any- 
thing. I ’m a poor creature, and I know it.” 

“ You need n’t be, if you did n’t like,” said Dick, who 
had heard this sort of thing some thousand times al- 
ready ; “ it ’s all your confounded laziness.” 

But Ossie only shook his head again, and sighed 
deeply. 


236 


dick’s wandering. 


During the rest of their coasting voyage it was but 
natural that Dick should sometimes regard his cousin 
with much uneasiness ; and yet for the most part he felt 
no great anxiety. He had a comfortable confidence in 
Ossie’s gift of falling on his legs, and in the ease of his 
changes. He thought it likely that they would meet 
some European ladies at Pera ; and, if there were none 
of these, he thought that Mr. Langdon’s fancy would bo 
safely diverted by some veiled and happily unapproach- 
able beauty of Stamboul. As for Miss Holcroft, Dick 
felt more and more strongly that she would take care of 
herself. He was glad that she knew how to keep Ossie 
within bounds. Every day he placed more confidence 
in the theory, that she regarded young men as created 
for the amusement of her idle hours ; while her serious 
interest was reserved for the improvement of herself. 
She read her German books, she played on her guitar, she 
made many sketches ; and these young men might look 
or listen, if they wished. If she so thoroughly forgot 
Ossie’s indiscretion, that she was ready to laugh with 
him, and perhaps at him a little, she treated Dick more 
seriously. She asked him questions about England, and 
about English poets and painters, of whom she seemed 
to know more than he. He began to think that a friend- 
ship with a clever girl was one of the pleasantest things 
in life ; he almost forgot those looks of hers which had 
perplexed him in the first days. And now the golden 
hours on the summer sea were soon to be of the past. 
The travellers were borne by islands of exquisite clear 
outline and soft splendid color — islands which, as the 
sun sank into the illumined water, seemed almost trans- 
parent, pale, luminous, violet beside the glow. At Smyrna 
they were obliged to say good-by to the ship in which 


dick’s wandering. 


237 


they had enjoyed so prosperous a voyage, and to go on 
board of another and a larger steamer, which had already 
many passengers. And so the peculiar charm was gone, 
and they all looked forward to the end. And one morn- 
ing they awoke, and found the steamer at rest; and 
when they met on deck, there were roofs and slender 
minarets close to them, the ancient cypresses of the Se- 
raglio gardens, and the dome of Saint Sophia eminent in 
the cool clear light of dawn. There, close beside them, 
in the centre of the ancient city, big ships lay on the 
deep silent waters of the Golden Horn, and the sharp- 
pointed light caiques rulffled the quiet surface as they 
darted here and there. 


CHAPTER XXXIIL 


It was very hot in Constantinople, hotter perhaps m 
the European hotels of Pera than in the dark narrow 
alleys of Stamboul. The travellers were eager to leave 
the city and go in search of the cool breezes of the 
Bosphorus. After the first great sight of the place 
from shipboard, the visiting of mosques and treasuries 
seemed tame enough ; and when they had peeped into 
the lovely l^Iosque of St. Sophia, which was but just 
purified from fevers and fever-stricken fugitives, they 
would have gone at once, had not Mr. Holcroft displayed 
an unexpected interest in military matters. He was 
the more bent on visiting the Turkish troops, who were 
busily strengthening their positions around the city, be- 
cause* among the letters which he carried there was one 
to an officer who held an important command. Armed 
with this he was confident that he would ride through 
the Turkish lines as freely as if he were the Sultan, and 
he asked Dick and Ossie to accompany him as a picked 
body-guard. So it was agreed that they should delay 
their departure for Buyuk Dere, which they had chosen 
as their resting-place on the Bosphorus, for at least a 
day. 

As they were riding up the open downs, Mr. Holcroft 
began to exhibit unusual excitement. He expressed 
unbounded admiration for the soldiers whom they met 
— the short Turkish regulars, with honest faces of a 
brick-dust color, and broad square shoulders which 


dick’s wandering. 


239 


seemed built to carry cannon. He pointed to them 
with a beaming countenance as examples of what men 
could be who never saw money, and were paid for their 
fighting with a handful of rice; and when he smiled 
upon them, they grinned at him with a childlike simplic- 
ity. Indeed, so simple is the nature of the Turk, while 
he has not a penny, and so friendly was the appearance 
of the American, that all the sentries after a brief col- 
loquy with their Greek guide, who combined astounding 
volubility with prompt invention, allowed the travellers 
to pass. Thus it happened that after riding for some 
miles over open downs — as open and familiar as the 
downs of Sussex — they came to the very key of the 
Turkish position, where under a screen of interwoven 
boughs the generals were holding a council of war ; and 
on the very next line of hills, white specks against the 
sky, were Russian tents. Mr, Holcroft grasped the 
situation in a moment. He began eagerly to point out 
how strong was this Turkish position ; how easily on 
the other hand the Russians, if they wished, might 
break the truce and bring on a battle as if by accident ; 
how much harder they would find the capture of the 
city, than they would have found it a month ago. He 
was in the full tide of explanation, when he was inter- 
rupted by the approach of the officer, to whom the guide 
had carried the letter of introduction. Polite as he was, 
the distinguished soldier could not help showing that 
he was by no means pleased to see them there. He 
shrugged his shoulders, as lie spoke of the sentries ; and 
he gave Mr. Holcroft so cordial an invitation to visit him 
on the next day at his headquarters, which were a mile 
or two nearer the city, that it was abundantly clear that 
he would make no effort to detain them at the present 
11 


240 


dick’s wandering. 


time. So after mutual apologies the travellers turned 
their horses’ heads eastward, and the officer, after re- 
peating his invitation to the American, returned to his 
consultation under the woven branches. 

As they rode homeward Dick expressed his surprise 
at Mr. Holcroft’s knowledge of military affairs ; but he 
was a good deal more surprised to learn that the Amer- 
ican had himself seen service. 

“ You had not heard of our war perhaps ? ” asked 
Mr. Holcroft, politely. Dick resented the imputation ; 
but he could not help saying in answer that he had also 
beard of a transatlantic fondness for military titles. 

“ Many of us dropped them,” said Mr. Holcroft 
gravely, “when the fighting was done. For my part,” 
he continued more gayly, “ I had had more than enough. 
I did not like it ; but it ’s a great country, and worth 
fighting for ; in spite of the politicians and the taxes. 
When you visit me in Beacon Street you will see a pic- 
ture of me in full uniform, and with half a horse. It 
was done to gratify the feminine vanity of my little 
girl. It is said to be simply splendid ; it bears a strik- 
ing resemblance to Prince Joachim Murat.” When 
they had ridden a little farther, “ I take it you think me 
a bad American,” he said ; “ but I am not. I trust the 
sense of our people, when they care enough. When 
they commence to care about a thing, that thing has got 
to be put right. As to politicians, I don’t know that 
ours are much worse than other people’s. I expect you 
would n’t find better fellows than these Turkish sol- 
diers ; but their Pashas would sell them, and each other, 
and the Mosque of St. Sophia, and throw the Sultan in 
for nothing. And over yonder at San Stephano there 
must be many stolid fellows ready to die for their Sla- 


dick’s wandering. 


241 


vonic kinsman or their holy Czar ; but I take it that 
their generals are pocketing the forage money, and that 
their diplomatists are scheming for each other’s shoes, 
as well as for the finest harbor in the world.” 

“ Of course there ’s right on both sides,” said Dick, 
‘ and wrong, too. I don’t love the Russians as a lot ; 
but after all they move, and the others can’t ; it ’s the 
difference between a future and a past ; between life and 
death.” 

“You desperate young Britons,” said Mr. Holcroft 
smiling, “ must have life in some shape.” 

“ Dick goes in tremendously for politics,” observed 
Ossie, who was tired of silence. 

The American turned in his saddle and regarded Dick 
with friendly interest. “ If you must have them,” he 
said, “ I hope you will take them lightly ; and that they 
won’t leave any bad after-effects.” 

They left their horses at the point of the Golden 
Horn ; and then reclining in the light caique they sped 
quickly down the great curve of the majestic harbor ; 
and they went ashore at the long rickety bridge of boats, 
whereon all day the most varied population in the world 
pass, most of them for* no reason, from Stamboul to 
Pera and from Pera to Stamboul. There is always a 
crowd on the bridge, and there may be seen every color 
which nature and weather can paint on the human coun- 
tenance, or dye and time give to the multiform clothing 
of mankind. Mr. Holcroft could never see this bridge 
without stopping to look and to moralize ; and he only 
turned from it now when he found that he was pointing 
out its superiority to all other bridges for the sole ben- 
efit of a couple of swarthy Bulgarian porters. Then he 


242 


dick’s wandering. 


smiled broadly upon this stolid audience, and followed 
Dick and Ossie up the steep street of Pera. 

As they came under the shadow of the hotel a rose 
fell at their feet, and looking up they saw Miss Holcroft 
in the balcony. Dick’s first thought was that the action 
was pretty and the girl charming ; but the next moment 
he was accusing her of having planned this pretty greet- 
ing, of assuming an attractive attitude. He did not like 
her to show herself to the open street ; it seemed bold, 
and excited in him a moment’s admiration of the veils 
and mufflers of the East. And yet when this young 
lady of the West came to meet them with all her confi- 
dence and modesty, the young Englishman’s little criti- 
cisms lay down and died before her natural charm. He 
clean forgot that he had ever been critical, and he was 
only eager to please. And so in obedience to a just in- 
stinct he began to speak of her father, and to express 
his surprise again that he had fought, and had never 
mentioned it. 

“ And you did n’t know it ! ” she exclaimed ; “ why, 
he fought splendidly. I must show you the account of 
his great charge.” 

“ Kitty ! ” said Mr. Holcroft ; but his daughter shook 
her head at him. “ You would like to see it, would n’t 
you ? ” she said to Dick. 

“ I should like to see it awfully,” said Dick, who 
found himself staring at her. Indeed he was delighted 
with her beauty and her sweet natural enthusiasm. 

“ I have often told her,” said Mr. Holcroft sadly, 
“ that I did not charge alone. There were a number of 
other persons implicated.” 

“ They never would have gone without you,” she said 
with her little chin in air and her eyes sparkling. 


dick’s wandering. 


243 


‘‘ If they had gone without me,” he remarked slowly, 

I expect that I should have been drummed out, and 
should have been sent home in disgrace.” 

Don’t, papa,” she cried imperiously. Then with 
both hands on her father’s arm, as if she would control 
tlie tall gentleman by force, with her delicate face 
flushed with admiration of him, and her eyes still raised 
to his, she said to Dick, “ Is n’t he perfectly horrid ? 
He never will be serious; but he can’t help being a 
hero.” 

“ Kitty ! Oh ! ” The second exclamation was much 
sharper than the first, for his daughter had pinched the 
arm to which she clung. 

“ Did you ever see such a little tyrant ? ” asked Mr. 
Ilolcroft with a voice full of love and pride. This ques- 
tion was directed to Dick, but for a moment he forgot 
to answer. He was seldom so unready. When it was 
time to go, he forgot to drop her hand as quickly as 
usual ; and again and again that evening there came back 
to him a memory of her sweet serious eyes. Nor did 
this strange effect pass with the passing hour. During 
the whole of the next day Dick Hartland was in a 
thoughtful mood, and Mr. Osbert Langdon yawned often 
in his company. 

It was agreed that Mr. Holcroft should ride alone to 
make his visit at Headquarters ; and that his English 
friends should go up the Bosphorus on one of the little 
steamers, and should secure rooms at Buyuk Dere for 
themselves, and for the Holcrofts who would follow 
them on the next morning. So the two friends made 
their little journey in the cool of the evening, and en- 
gaged the necessary rooms ; and, when Ossie had fallen 
asleep after dinner, Dick sat by the open window and 


244 


dick’s wandering. 


allowed his thoughts to wander in a very idle manner. 
But for all their liberty his thoughts would not wander 
far ; they returned wilfully to one object. It was a night 
of stars and of lights far below upon the waters, and of 
shadowy sweet coasts, which made the watcher wonder 
if they could be half so beautiful under the morrow’s 
sun. Perhaps it was the influence of the place and of 
the hour, which made the energetic young Englishman 
so dreamy. The perfume of unseen roses came in to 
him ; they reminded him of the girl who would come on 
the morrow. He thought of the soft brown hair ; of the 
grave eyes which he had seen when he held her hand 
at parting ; of the pouting of the lips with their arch de- 
fiance, which he had noticed so often. It was strange 
how clearly he could see this girl’s face, though it was 
miles away. He leaned his cheek against his arm and 
gave himself to dreaming ; he smiled into the dusk not 
knowing that he smiled ; nor did he wake from his un- 
usual reverie, until he found his lips murmuring a name. 
Then he stood up with a warm blush on his boyish 
cheek, and began to laugh at himself. “ What ’s this ? ” 
he asked ; “ what ’s coming to me ? It ’s all nonsense ; 
this comes of mooning at a window ” — and he laughed 
again. And then he leaned out once more into the 
fragrant night ; and just to show that he dared to play 
with these idle fancies, which of course meant nothing, 
he whispered the name again as tenderly as he could. 
“ Kitty,” he whispered ; it was a comical little name, he 
thought, when spoken sentimentally. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


Dick woke on the next morning with a feeling of 
expectation which he could not explain. When it sud- 
denly occurred to him that all this was because a girl 
was coming, whom he had not seen for a day, he 
laughed aloud at his folly. It seemed absurd that he, 
of all men, should be so dependent on his friends ; but 
then he reminded himself that he was far from home 
and in a strange land ; this seemed a good enough ex- 
planation, or at least good enough to last till breakfast 
was done. To breakfast Ossie came yawning, and after 
fortifying himself with coffee expressed an intention of 
dropping down to Pera and telling the Holcrofts that 
their rooms were ready. He set up this resolution for 
Dick to knock down, and he was faintly disappointed 
when it was met with the advice to go before the sun 
grew hot. At this he probably would have abandoned 
the design had not his friend announced that he should 
accompany him as far as Therapia and ask at the Em- 
bassy for letters. Thereupon, as he did not feel ener- 
getic enough for opposition, he allowed himself to be 
started. 

When Dick had returned with his letters, he carried 
them to the window-seat, where he had sat the night 
before ; but, when he was there, he forgot to read, for 
he found there the same thoughts which had half pleased 
and half perplexed him in the evening. The place and 
the very attitude, in which he leaned upon the striped 


246 


dick’s wandering. 


divan, seemed to recall the fancies, which he had put 
away with laughter. Even when he had opened his 
letters he read some sentences twice or thrice with 
small understanding, and his eyes would wander to the 
outer air. Close to him, wreathed about the light bal- 
cony, great yellow roses were liberal in the light ; and 
the awning, which fell almost to touch them, was petu- 
lant in the fickle air, which seemed to touch Dick’s eyes 
and lips with a caress. Below him was a garden of 
more roses and sweet shrubs ; and beyond that and far 
below he could see the water ruffled now and then by 
a light breeze, and in the pauses oily calm. With a 
great swing this way and a back swing that, the Bos- 
phorus sweeps down from the Black Sea like a strong 
river ; and there was small progress to be made against 
it with the fickle breeze of that morning. In the bays 
close under either shore ships from all lands lay idle ; 
and only one was moving slowly with all sail set against 
the heavy stream. 

Now, though Dick’s eyes would wander to the light 
without and his thoughts stray from the reading, the 
letters, which he had found at Therapia, were not with- 
out interest. First he opened his mother’s, and read 
it in leisurely fashion, pleasing himself in the intervals 
of his day-dream with her good report of all things at 
home. When he reached the postscript he was roused 
to a keener interest, for in the postscript she had com- 
pressed the important news that Mr. Kirby was to con- 
test a county at the next election, and was most anxious 
that his young cousin should come home and look after 
Redgate. Dick turned from his mother’s neat charac- 
ters to the boldly straggling direction of his more emi- 
nent relative. Mr. Kirby had written his letter in the 


dick’s wandering. 


247 


House of Commons while he was waiting for a division ; 
a few of his weighty yet familiar sentences covered the 
ample sheet. He enjoined secrecy, and named his 
county. Then he wrote that of course Dick ought to 
succeed him at Redgate ; that his own popularity with 
the town and the Hartland influence ought to make it 
a certainty ; that in these days, however, nothing was 
safe without nursing ; that Dick should come back at 
once and nurse the borough. Dick’s first feeling was 
that the borough might wait, that there were better 
things in life than boroughs. He was smiling as he put 
the letter in his pocket for future consideration ; and 
he smiled with a livelier expectation as he opened the 
third epistle. This had been written by Fabian Deane 
within two days after his parting from his friends at 
Damascus ; it is even probable that it had travelled in 
the same boat which had carried them to Smyrna ; if 
so, it is almost strange that it had not made its pres- 
ence felt, so explosive were its contents. Some forty 
fleeting hours had produced a revolution ; and Mr. Cav- 
endish Tisley, who had been the force to move the East- 
ern world, was now described in terms which would 
have libelled the initiative of a feather-bed. 

“Not another night, wrote Fabian, “will I spend 
under this impostor’s sham-Mauresque roof. He is the 
Arch Impostor ; a wind-bag blown up with conceit and 
old phrases ; a bloated centipede, with fifty legs going 
each way ; silent as a mummy, and as likely to do any- 
thing useful ; a self-important pudding. I wish I could 
describe him, but the fellow is such a humbug that he 
beggars description ; and what he does crawling between 
heaven and earth is more than I can make out, unless 
he is spared for the sake of his good little Episcopal- 


248 


DICK'S WANDERING. 


close wife, who actually makes herself believe in this 
fantastic stuffed target, whom the poor little dear must 
have sworn to love and to obey! Talking of which, 
where are the Holcrofts ? And when shall you be in 
England ? Write to me there, for I am going home by 
the shortest possible way and must find something to do. 
^ Must ’ is the word ! Contemplation of this monstrous 
C. T. has made useful activity the first necessity of life. 
Come home too, like the wise boy you always were ! 
Yours as ever, Fabian Deane.” 

“ Talking of which, where are the Holcrofts ? ” said 
Dick to himself, as he folded his friend’s letter. Noth- 
ing else in the letter had surprised him. He saw noth- 
ing unprecedented in Mr. Deane’s rapid flight from pro- 
found veneration to absolute contempt ; and it seemed 
quite natural that no reason should be given for the 
change. For his own part he had decided long ago that 
little was to be gained from Mr. Cavendish Tisley ; and 
the sight of Russian officers walking the streets of Pera 
in conspicuous uniforms had brought home to him the 
very unsettled condition of the Turkish empire so vividly, 
that he had postponed all question of buying land in 
Palestine till such time as man might know what power 
would be responsible for order there. “ Talking of 
which, where are the Holcrofts ? ” Dick repeated to 
himself. That was the sentence which struck him. 
‘‘ Talking of what ? ” he asked himself. ‘‘ Come home 
too, like the wise boy you always were ! ” What did he 
mean ? Why was it wise to go home just now ? He was 
rather annoyed with Fabian for not being more explicit. 
He laughed as he thought that his friend had spoken 
plainly enough about the unfortunate Cavendish ; but 
though he laughed, he was rather vexed. The sugges- 


dick’s wandering. 


249 


tion of going home made him look again at his mother ’s 
letter ; and now he seemed to read between the lines a 
constant wish that he would come home to her. She 
had been careful never to urge him to return, since he 
went away ; and it was hard to tell why this last letter 
seemed to breathe a different spirit. She had written 
that Mr. Kirby said that he ought to come back to the 
borough ; but as he read, he felt that a stronger influ- 
ence was on him than that of Mr. Kirby, or his bor- 
ough. If he did go home now, it would be for his moth- 
er’s sake. He told himself that there was no other reason 
which should make him put a sudden end to his wander- 
ing. At least there was no immediate hurry ; he would 
take time to decide ; this was only wise. Besides, he 
should like to know what these other people were going 
to do. ‘‘ Talking of which, where are the Holcrofts ? ” 
Dick said to himself that there was nobody like Fabian 
for finding a mare’s nest. He got up, and stood in the 
open window drumming on the pane with impatient fin- 
gers. The door opened behind him. Without doubt 
here they were ; here were the Holcrofts. He turned 
to greet them with a face bright with welcome ; but 
there was nobody but Ossie, — - and Ossie in his most 
melancholy mood. 

AVhere are they ? ” asked Dick. 

‘‘ They ain’t coming,” answered Ossie, resentfully. 

“ Not coming ! Why not ? ” 

You need n’t abuse me about it. It is n’t my fault.” 

“ But what did she say ? Did n’t she give any rea- 
son ? ” It is worthy of note that it did not occur at any 
moment to either young man, that the change of plans 
might have been due to Mr. Holcroft. 

No,” said Ossie ; she did n’t give any reason. She 


250 


dick’s wandering. 


was just as jolly as usual. She said she had n’t half 
done the Bazaar ; and that she could n’t live without 
shopping. She wanted me to tell you particularly that 
she could n’t live without shopping. I suppose you ’ve 
offended her about something.” He paused for an an- 
swer, but, as Dick said nothing, he continued, “ She 
said that in America girls did n’t follow young men ; 
she looked most awfully cheeky as she said it; she ’s the 
jolliest girl I ever saw ; I suppose there ’s nothing to do 
here ; it seems a dull sort of place.” 

Dick was looking down to the waters of the Bospho- 
rus and the steep shore opposite ; and he seemed in no 
hurry to defend it from the charge of dullness. Some- 
how its beauty had gone, and left only its loneliness. 
There was no sound in the hot air ; the one ship, which 
had been trying to move against the stream, had given 
up the effort and dropped anchor under the shelter of 
the shore. Dick remembered that unlucky speech of 
his, in which he had seemed to imply that her presence 
on board the French boat was in some way due to theirs. 
This declaration of hers about American girls showed 
that she had not forgotten it. He supposed that this 
tiick, which she had played them, delighted her as a 
little piece of vengeance. Of course she expected them 
to . appear penitent on the morrow ; she wanted this 
petty proof of her power ; after all, she was no more 
than a spoiled child, capricious and vain ; after all, she 
was nothing better than a little flirt. 

Dick’s meditations were interrupted by his cousin, 
who had dropped into that comfortable chair in which 
he had slept away some hours of the previous evening. 

“ I can’t make out why you ain’t awfully in love with 
her,” said Ossie. Dick did not turn ; he stared straight 


dick’s wandering. 


251 


out into the sunlight, but he felt the blood tingling in 
his ears. “She don’t care a button for me, — worse 
luck ! ” said Ossie, a little later. 

“ Nor for me,” said Dick, shortly ; “ don’t talk such 
nonsense.” 

Mr. Langdon, who was regarding his own boots with 
tender interest, began to hum. “ Dickie,” he observed, 
at last, more cheerfully, “ you are a clod ; you ’ve no 
heart ; you never had any.” 

“ That ’s all right.” 

“ If I were you, I would marry this girl to-morrow.” 

“ And what reason have you to suppose, you bloom 
ing idiot, that she would look at me ? ” Though this 
question was unmistakably directed at the gentleman in 
the arm-chair, Dick still looked out of the window in 
tently as if he were watching a procession. 

“ My dear Dick,” said Ossie with temper unruffled by 
hard names, and his best air of worldly wisdom, “ My 
dear Dickie, she knows all about you.” 

“ Oh, does she ! ” 

“ Of course she does. She has asked me hundreds of 
questions about you, and your position, and your prop 
erty, and all that.” 

“ Oh ! ” 

“ Don’t you know that all these American girls are dy- 
ing to marry Englishmen with good position. Position 
— that ’s what they care about — and a park. Parks 
are the things for these American girls.” 

“ Oh, shut up,” said Dick ; “ and don’t talk such 
washed-out old nonsense.” 

“ It ’s true,” said Ossie wagging his head sagely ; 
“ everybody knows this sort of thing but you, and you ’re 
an old goose. You ’ll be caught some day and cooked 
You ’re not the sort of chap that women refuse.” 


252 


dick’s wandering. 


Oh, I know that stuff of yours,” said Dick ; but 
somehow this time he did not laugh at his cousin’s 
worldly wisdom. He spoke crossly. The truth is that 
he was more out of humor with his pleasant world than 
he had ever been in his life before. 

“ Do you think of staying long in this lively spot ? ” 
asked*Ossie presently. 

“ No,” said Dick ; “ I think I shall have to go homc.^ 

“ Go home ! ” 

‘‘ Yes.” He tossed Mr. Kirby’s letter to his cousin. 

Redgate wants to be nursed,” he said, and walked out 
of the room. He wanted to be alone. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


Dick retired into solitude that he might consider his 
feelings ; and so little accustomed was he to self-exami- 
nation, that it was with a sense of solemnity little short of 
awe that he withdrew himself from his volatile cousin. 
He knew that the time had come when he must consider 
his position. He wondered how he had been content to 
drift so long. However, he would waste no more time 
in wonder ; he must look this thing fairly in the face, 
and have done with it forever. As he reviewed his 
thoughts and feelings of the last few weeks, he was 
ashamed of himself. He, who was in the habit of un- 
derstanding people so easily, had spent hour after idle 
hour in questioning and doubting about a girl. He, who 
had always seen so clearly the relative importance of the 
facts of life, had been dwelling on trifles lighter than air, 
considering the meaning of a look or a careless word. 
He had been puzzled, perplexed, out of temper. As he 
looked back on his strange moods, he exaggerated his 
irritability ; for so sweet was Dick Hartland’s natural 
temper, that his occasional crossness seemed monstrous 
in his eyes. As he recalled his feelings, he told himself 
again with greater emphasis that a continuation of this 
state of things would be intolerable. He asked himself 
what was the meaning of this doubt, and perplexity, and 
irritation. Was it possible that they were the first symp- 
toms of that unknown malady of Love ? If so, it was 
strange that his feeling for this girl was so like annoy- 


254 


dick’s wandering. 


ance. Did his friends think that he was in danger of 
falling in love, and was it that strange thought which had 
prompted Fabian Deane’s question about the Ilolcrofts, 
and Ossie’s careless remarks, — perhaps even caused the 
spirit of his mother’s letter ? Was he really in danger 
of falling in love ? To that important question had he 
come at last. lie stopped in his solitary walking and 
squared his shoulders as if he would emphatically an- 
swer, No ; but even then the little word was not uttered. 
He wished to be exactly true with himself ; and this girl 
still puzzled him so much, that it was hard to be certain 
of the exact truth. 

As Dick walked backward and forward, he gradually 
found more and more comfort in one thought, which 
seemed to promise him a firm ground for action. This 
thought had not a heroic air, for it was a thought of 
flight. It seemed certain to him that he had better put 
an end to all this questioning and unworthy splitting of 
straws by promptly removing himself from the atmos- 
phere which caused them. If there were really the re- 
motest chance of his becoming a victim of the tender 
passion, the reasons for flight were twice as strong. 
Had he not declared to himself that when he chose a 
wife, he would give weight to all his mother’s preju- 
dices ; that this should be a sort of atonement for his 
obstinacy about the land ? As for Miss Holcroft, he 
told himself with a touch of bitterness that, if he were 
certain of nothing else in this matter, he was certain at 
least that she did not love him. He laughed at the 
thought. 

As Dick went through again the few short weeks 
since first he saw the girl, who had so unduly occupied 
his thoughts, it seemed to him that almost from the first 


dick’s wandering. 


255 


le had had two pictures of her in his mind, and had 
oeen hesitating between them. The one picture repre- 
sented a girl transparently honest for all her cleverness ; 
with quick feelings, but a high standard of conduct ; with 
a serious interest in all forms of art as means for her 
improvement, and yet not contemptuous of such pretty 
decorations of life as dress or pleasant talk of the trifles 
of every day. The other picture was of a less amiable 
character. It represented one who was not honest ; 
whose frank looks and manners were assumed for a pur- 
pose, — put on with care like her gowns and gloves ; 
whose good conduct was due to calculation and cool 
blood ; who cultivated music and painting as accomplish- 
ments which added to her power of attraction ; who 
found the chief business of life in amusing herself, and 
the greatest amusement in flirtation. Dick now de- 
clared to himself, that doubt as to which of these two 
pictures was the true representation of the original was 
the cause of all his perplexity. 

Dick presently returned to the belief, of which he 
had now laid firm hold, that, whether Miss Holcroft re- 
sembled the better portrait or the worse, she did not 
care for him. If she were the true, straightforward girl 
in whom at some moments he had felt such confidence, 
it was still certain that her interest in him was as noth- 
ing in comparison with her interest in her own improve- 
ment. She was still comically unlike that ideal gentle 
wife, whom he had purposed to wed some day for the 
satisfaction of his mother, and for the providing of a 
quiet element in his own busy useful life, — of whom be 
had dreamed, now as a haven of rest, now as of a dim 
gray-clad angel whose pleasure and duty it was to 
Bmoothe the wrinkles from his brow. If Miss Holcroft 


256 


dick’s wandering. 


were honest and true, she was still far from her whom 
he would do well to marry ; and luckily it was certain 
that she did not care for him. If on the other hand she 
were no more than a clever comedian of real life, who 
lived for these little comedies of two idle players, it was 
certain that he was no more to her than a player in a 
theatrical episode, a name on a list of men, a page in 
her album of photographs. 

As Dick grew more and more impatient of this neces- 
sary consideration of his position, immediate departure 
seemed more and more clearly to be the solution of all 
difficulties. If the girl was true, Dick felt certain that 
she would marry no man whom she did not really love ; 
and so he had better go, while he could go without pain. 
If she were no better than a little flirt, the reasons for 
flight were terribly strong ; for such a girl, though she 
did not love him, might marry any man for position — 
for the park, which Ossie had talked about. It was 
only too clear what Ossie thought of her in spite of all 
his admiration. Dick in his eagerness for certainty was 
inclined to take the final leap ; to admit that this girl 
was no more than the little frivolous American flirt, of 
whom he had heard, and that his occasional belief in 
her higher qualities was due to his inexperience of the 
species, and to her uncommon cleverness. All the ar- 
guments seemed to be on that side. How could her air 
of frankness be genuine after seasons of frivolous soci- 
ety ? Would so unsuspicious a person as himself ever 
have doubted her at all, if her nature had been so simply 
true ? He said to himself that she had been playing 
with him, as she had been playing with Ossie. It was 
time for flight, and he would go ; and he would take his 
cousin with him. 


dick’s wandering. 


257 


When Dick had made up his mind to go, he spent but 
little time in settling details. He decided to return to 
Pera on the next morning, and there to secure berths 
on the steamer which left on the following day. Mean- 
while, being by this time heartily sick of mental discus- 
sion, he determined to do something energetic before 
sundown. He thought that a brisk ride would clear 
his head of idle thoughts ; he knew that his host had 
horses ; he was unwilling to leave the Bosphorus with- 
out one peep at the forest of Belgrade, which was so 
close at hand. So first he ordered that two animals 
should be saddled at once ; and then he went to tell his 
cousin all that was before him. He had made plans 
for Ossie, as well as for himself; it seemed like old 
times ; and the pleasantest thing about this necessary 
retreat was that it would restore his friend to his care. 
Dick never doubted that Ossie would accept his decision, 
and would forget the Holcrofts, father and daughter, al- 
most before he was out of sight of land. Since they 
had first seen the girl, faint shadows of distrust had 
come between them ; there had been another influence 
on the wayward youth. Now Dick warmed his heart 
with the thought that he would carry his cousin un- 
scathed away ; that he would put things right for him at 
home in England ; that the old frank comradeship would 
be restored with all its charm. So it was with a smile 
on his lips that he told Ossie of his plans ; and Ossie so 
far justified his expectations that he made no objections. 
Indeed, he said nothing audible ; but, as he began to 
prepare himself for the afternoon’s ride, it was clear 
that he acquiesced in that arrangement at least. 

Out they rode in the pleasant drowsy air of the sum- 
mer afternoon ; and as they rode, there opened before 


258 


dick’s wandering. 


them a country familiar to their eyes as Surrey, swell- 
ing into gentle hills, rich and warm, with here and there 
a patch of growing wheat. They clattered along the 
white road, and Dick’s spirits rose with the movement. 
Eiding fast, they were soon in the skirts of the forest ; 
and there, under the cool shadows, their pace became 
slower and slower. And this woodland, too, was famil- 
iar enough, with its oaks and its poplars, its deep fern 
freckled with broken lights. Thoughts of home and of 
the coverts of Glaring came to Dick ; and his eyes 
peered eagerly through the dark cool screen beside him. 
Beyond this first dark screen the forest sloped down- 
ward, and the trees on the edge of the slope caught the 
full sunlight, and somewhere there an unseen nightin- 
gale made the summer air one music with the throbbing 
of his song. Perhaps the young man’s review of his 
feelings had left them somewhat tender ; he had never 
before been so keenly affected by such little gifts of Na- 
ture, as this sunlight which penetrated the wood a little 
way away, as this bird that sang in a bush. Ilis horse 
moved slowly under him ; he forgot his dear companion ; 
for a moment in the near shadows he had a vision of 
an arch innocent face, which looked so little guileful ; but 
in a moment, too, he had brushed it away with decision. 
To put an end to such fancies, he turned to his silent 
comrade ; and then he saw for the first time sticking out 
between two buttons of Ossie’s coat the butt end of the 
pistol, which he had insisted on bringing from England. 
‘‘ AVhat on earth do you bring that thing for ? ” asked 
Dick. 

Good men are scarce,” said Ossie ; ‘‘I’m bound to 
take care of myself. ‘ Sauve qui p2ut ! ’ you know.” 

Dick laughed, and pushed the old horse forward. 


dick’s wandering. 


259 


When he had gone a little farther, it occurred to him 
that the shadows of the trees would be long on the 
ground, if the path were not so narrow ; it must be time 
to go back. He turned his horse, and then it struck him 
that he was a little doubtful about the way. They had 
turned olf the road, and now, when they wished to re- 
gain it, they almost immediately came to a place where 
two paths crossed, and there they paused uncertain. 
Dick declared for one way, Ossie for the other. 

‘‘ I ’ll go down this and see,” said Ossie. 

“ All right,” said Dick ; ‘‘ only don’t get out of shout- 
ing distance.” 

Dick’s path brought him in a very few minutes to the 
right road ; but as he rode out from the darkness of the 
trees, he saw something, which half inclined him to seek 
shelter again. Not more than two hundred yards dis- 
tant, and coming to meet him, was a small body of foot- 
soldiers. They were straggling down the road with no 
officer to be distinguished ; all alike looked dirty and 
reckless. It was probable that they belonged to that 
part of the Turkish army, which had been placed to 
guard the head of the Bosphorus ; but they were wholly 
unlike the stalwart honest men whom Dick had seen on 
the downs above Constantinople. At a glance Dick 
pronounced them an ill-looking lot. It flashed across 
him that they might take him for a Russian wandering 
about during the armistice ; that, whether they took 
him for a Russian or no, these were the sort of fel- 
lows whom a solitary man in a lonely place, and in 
the growing darkness of the wood might tempt to plun- 
der, if not to snap of pistol. The thought of a pistol 
brought Ossie’s weapon to mind ; so far as he could see, 
these rascals had no rifles with them ; they looked like 


260 


dick’s wandering. 


sorry rascals indeed, and if there were a row, the sight 
of a second horseman with a revolver would cow them 
in a moment. As soon as he had come out of the 
trees, he knew that he was seen ; and as he remem- 
bered his cousin, he shouted his name loudly, and rode 
slowly forward with an air of carelessness. Almost as 
he shouted, he saw Ossie break from the wood beyond 
the straggling soldiers, who turned to look at him. “ Os- 
sie ! ” shouted Dick ; but Ossie seemed to be in difficul- 
ties with his horse, pulling his head about and spurring 
him in an angry manner ; and the horse, with a great 
noise on the hard road, galloped away towards Buyuk 
Dere. Dick felt a moment’s regret, for he was sure 
that if his cousin had come to meet him with his pistol 
carelessly displayed, this rabble, which separated them, 
would have been tame enough. He had time to think 
it strange that Ossie had not even glanced down the 
road ; he supposed that all his attention was given to 
his beast, and that the galloping hoofs must have drowned 
his shout. As it was, there was probably nothing to 
fear. He kicked the old gray into a canter. As he 
quickened his pace, he saw that the stragglers spread 
themselves with seeming carelessness across the road. 
“ God help me ! ” he said below his breath ; and then 
he set his teeth. Within a few yards of the soldiers he 
suddenly tightened his rein and his knees and gave his 
beast a smart cut with his whip ; the good old horse 
sprang forward ; there was a shout around him, and a 
dingy half-bred ruffian caught his rein, and swung for- 
ward on the road beside him. And now Dick’s blood 
was dancing, and with a short sharp crack he brought 
his heavy-headed whip down on the dusky wrist, and 
his horse galloped free. He heard the rascal’s howl. 


dick’s wandering. 


261 


and he gave a great shout in answer, as he bent low, 
expecting every instant the whistle of a pistol ball. 
However, nothing came ; and as he pulled up and looked 
back, he laughed at himself. It was not half an adven- 
ture. He had never been aggressive ; and yet the blood 
was tingling in his veins ; some old fighting spirit was 
eager in his heart ; he was half inclined to go back and 
ride through them again. Then again he laughed at 
himself for his folly, and patted the old gray^s neck and 
set him in motion towards his home. 

As Dick drew near to Buyuk Dere, he saw Ossie 
riding back to meet him. Ossie was very white, and 
as soon as he was within speaking distance he began 
asking questions with a hurried and excited manner. 

“ I *ve had a little adventure all to myself,” said Dick 
in his triumphant mood, as soon as he could get in a 
word ; ‘‘ I shouted to you ; did n’t you hear me shout ? ” 

“ No,” said Ossie, in a moment ; Dick looked at him 
with a sudden fear; a feeling of sickness came over 
him, as he knew that Ossie had lied. 


CHAPTER XXXVL 


Night brought little comfort to Dick Ilartland. Ho 
was in a mood of such bitterness as he had never 
known, — as he would have maintained to be impossible 
for him. He had been contemptuous with easy good 
nature of all railing against life and the world; but 
now life seemed poisoned, and the world a base world, 
in which no woman was worthy of love, no man capable 
of friendship. He asked no explanation from Ossie, 
nor did he meet him with rebuke. Neither explanation 
nor rebuke could do any good. The only scrap of 
comfort came to him when his cousin told him that he 
did not wish to start for England at once. A friendly 
attache had offered him a room at Therapia, and he 
should like to go there for a week or two. Though 
Ossie’s manner was unusually submissive, Dick made 
no effort to dissuade him ; he was eager to get away 
from him for a time. The cousins were uncomfortable 
together, and they were both glad when the parting was 
over. 

As soon as Dick had set foot in Pera, he went to 
engage a cabin on the ship which was to start on the 
evening of the next day. Then he wrote a note to Miss 
Holcroft, and asked at what time next morning he 
might come to say good-by to her and to her father. 
He wrote briefly that letters from home had urged him 
to come back; and that of course he could not leave 
without saying good-by, and thanking them for having 


dick’s wandering. 


263 


ruade his travels so pleasant. When he had despatched 
this note, he walked up and down restlessly until he 
received an answer. At last his messenger returned 
with a little three-cornered letter. Though the shape 
of the envelope had a suggestion of frivolity, the hand- 
writing was large and clear and regular. She wrote 
that she was sorry that he was going, and doubly 
sorry that he was going so soon, because her father had 
gone to see the English fleet and would not be back in 
time to say good-by ; and then she named an hour at 
which she would be delighted to receive him. And 
that was all. As Dick stood twisting the note in his 
fingers, he thought it strange that she had not appended 
to her invitation some allusion to transatlantic customs 
and to his supposed British prejudice against calling on 
young ladies. If she had, he would have condemned it 
as bad taste ; as it was, he said to himself bitterly that 
her note was exactly what it ought to be. “ A most 
accomplished young lady ! ’’ he said to himself, as he 
began to tear the paper across. Then he stopped, and 
put the note back in its cover, and the cover into his 
pocket ; some day perhaps he would like to have some- 
thing to prevent him from entirely forgetting some in- 
teresting hours. 

Dick walked about the streets till dinner-time, and in 
spite of the inadequacy of the world he came to the 
table d'hote with a fair appetite. There, as he was 
lucky enough to sit next to a man whose conversation 
interested him, he almost forgot his troubles for a time. 
His neighbor was a Russian, and he was moreover that 
rare creature, an educated Russian, who retained some 
enthusiasm. lie spoke English like a native, and as 
he found that Dick listened with interest, he became elo- 
12 


264 


dick’s wandering. 


quent in a quiet way on the rotten condition of the Ot- 
toman Empire, on the impossibility of an Oriental state 
in the civilized Europe of to-day, on its barbarous cus- 
toms, its incredible ignorance, the degradation of its 
women. Dick was inclined to agree with him that the 
life of Turkey in Europe could not be long; that the 
practical question was who was to be the successor. 
Upon this the Russian gentleman, with the greatest po- 
liteness, offered Dick Egypt in exchange for the Golden 
Horn ; and though the young Englishman raised some 
objections on the ground of property, he found the sug- 
gestion interesting. Indeed their talk became lively ; 
and it once or twice crossed Dick’s mind how good a 
thing it was, that if one met with disappointments in 
private life there were still the affairs of the nation, and 
that these at least were worthy of man’s best efforts- 
Tie was so pleased with his conversation that, when his 
new acquaintance suggested an adjournment after din- 
ner to a neighboring cq/e, he agreed without hesitation. 

This cafe in Pera had been established by Europeans 
for Europeans ; and while the visitors smoked and 
drank, the stage at one end of the room was occupied 
by a company of French singers and comedians. At 
the moment when Dick entered, there was some applause 
and rapping of sticks on the tables, for a lady of the 
troupe was standing triumphant on one toe while with 
her hand she clutched the high heel on her other foot 
high in air above her head. The strange thought came 
to the young Englishman that probably no dancing Der- 
vish in the East could perform this agile feat. AVhen 
this lithe lady’s dance was done, another lady of ampler 
mould, with dead white skin and bold black eyes and 
a wide mouth full of uneven teeth sang with a shrill 


dick’s wandering. 


265 


metallic voice a little song full of Parisian slang and 
strange allusions. Then others sang and others danced ; 
and yet in spite of all these efforts to amuse him, some- 
how in the smoky air of the place Dick’s bitter mood 
crept back to him, and he felt out of humor with life. 
He wondered if the Eastern barbarian, who wandered 
into this place of amusement, would recognize the su- 
periority of Western civilization, and the elevation of 
European women above the degraded inmates of the 
Harem. He remembered what he had heard in Syria 
of the naturalized usurers, and how they used the Eu- 
ropean consuls to extort their monstrous interest ; and 
lie wondered if this custom had impressed the Eastern 
mind with the value of Western protection and the jus- 
tice of Western rule. He wondered if contemplation 
of the absolute trust and open dealing, which prevailed 
between all the civilized governments of Europe, would 
ever teach the Porte the value of a straightforward 
policy. 

What would be the first step in progress ? To turn 
the Mosque of St. Sophia into a church, or the gardens 
of the old Seraglio into a magnificent Cremorne? Dick 
on that evening almost doubted the value of progress. 
He was heartily sick of the cafe and these accomplished 
Parisians, — almost sick of life for the time being. As 
he walked home, he told himself that to improve the 
world was a dream like the rest. What a world it was, 
which he had thought so fair ! Here girls played with 
hearts for their amusement ; friend dared not stand by 
friend ; reformers were mere Cavendish Tisleys ; and a 
corrupt East was to be civilized forsooth by a corrupted 
West. 

After a night less restful than the last, Dick rose with 


266 


dick’s wandering. 


the desire of flight twice as strong within him. If ho 
seemed for the moment to have lost all other faith, he 
still believed that he could vanquish these bitter thoughts, 
which he could scarcely realize as his, when once he had 
turned his back forever on this ancient city with its his- 
tory of blood and crime. He busied himself with getting 
everything ready; but when there was no more to be 
done, there was still an hour or more before he could go 
to Miss Holcroft. He walked about, and wished that the 
interview was over; he told himself that it could be 
nothing, — nothing but a brief visit of ceremony ; he 
stopped himself again and again from wondering what 
she would say, or what she would think. It seemed as 
if the time would never be gone ; but at last the hour 
had come, and he hurried to say good-by. 

Miss Holcroft was alone, when Dick was shown into 
the room. He had no eye for details of costume ; but yet 
he saw at a glance that she was exquisitely though simply 
dressed ; and the pains which she had taken to look her 
best seemed to him in his odd humor to put a final bar- 
rier between them. He was conscious of a feeling of con- 
straint which w'as new to him. His manner was formal 
and chilly — priggish, he supposed. He was so little used 
to think about his manner that thought of it made him 
unlike himself. When she had expressed regret at her 
father’s absence, and he had said something to the same 
effect, there was a little pause, and then she said, ‘‘I 
am so sorry you are going aw^ay.” She spoke in a tone 
of kindness, and the words were kind ; but to Dick in his 
unhappy mood they seemed almost unmaidenly. If she 
w^ere sorry, he was sure that it w^as because flirtation is 
impossible without a man. He thought that she might 
have let him go without dressing herself up, and saying 
soft tilings to him. 


dick’s wandering. 


267 . 


It ’s time I went back,” he said ; there are things 
to look after ; and they want me to go in for politics.” 

Miss Holcroft made no comment on this information ; 
she sat looking at him as if she expected him to talk. 
She had her back to the shaded light ; and this made 
liim uneasy, for he could not see the expression of her 
face. So he went on talking about politics and the state 
of parties in England, with a dreary indifference to both 
parties and to all politics. 

I wonder if you have any real reason for going,” 
she said at last, when he seemed to have no more to 
say. 

Fifty,” he said with an unnatural laugh. He felt 
that this should move her to prattle ; when she said 
nothing, he was half angry with her silence ; these 
pauses irritated him ; he began asking about their plans, 
that she might be compelled to answer. But her an- 
swers were very short ; for they seemed to have made 
no plans. She thought that they would not go home 
for at least a year ; and that was all which she could 
tell him. He went on asking questions, and only half 
listening. The contrast of all this, which he was saying, 
with the words in his heart, made him feel like a me- 
chanical doll. 

At last he could stand it no longer ; he rose to go. 
‘‘I hope,” he said, “that when you come to England, 
you will let me know ; your father has my address ; 
will you tell him ? I should like to do something ” — 

He did not finish his sentence ; she had risen too and 
was standing near him, but her face was still in shadow. 
She gave him her hand without a word ; and he held it 
for a moment or two awkwardly. “ Good-by, then,” he 
said suddenly, as he dropped her hand from his. He 


268 


dick’s wandering. 


went out and shut the door behind him ; but in the in- 
stant before it was quite closed, he heard a sound, which 
made him stand still in the passage listening. He had 
shut the door behind him, before he had time to think 
that he had heard a sob. He stood still, but he heard 
nothing. He told himself that he had heard nothing. 
Any way she was dramatic ; that at least he knew ; the 
proper end of such an episode, even of an episode so lit- 
tle sentimental as this, was of course a tear. He ran 
down-stairs and out into the street. A little later he 
was standing alone on the deck of the steamer, which 
moved slowly down the Bosphorus ; he was already 
counting the days which must pass before he was again 
at home in England. 


CHAPTER XXXVIL 


“ What ’s the matter, mother ? Ain’t you sure yet 
that I ’m myself ? ” Dick had looked up from the let- 
ter which he was writing, and found his mother’s eyes 
fixed on him again. It was his first evening at home. 

No,” she answered with a little laugh, in which 
some of her great happiness found expression ; I don’t 
feel sure, until you speak. When you are not smiling, 
you look grave and old. I feel as if you were a man, 
and not my boy any more.” 

Dick came and seated himself on the sofa by her side. 
“ You must love me all the more,” he said ; “ I can’t do 
without it now that I ’m bid and grave.” He smiled in 
a most boyish manner, and took her hand in his. The 
pressure of his strong hand gave Sophie Hartland an 
extraordinary sense of comfort. She had missed him 
every day, almost every hour. She had always been 
conscious of her loss — not of the loss of his presence 
only, but, as she sometimes feared with an awful fear, 
of his love also. While he had been journeying and 
planning and observing, she had been too often occu- 
pied by miserable thoughts. She had been too much 
alone ; she had had too much time for reflection. In 
vain she had exhorted herself to be firm. In vain she 
had blamed Dick again and again for his self-will ; for 
his refusal to be bound by the opinions of his dead father. 
In spite of daily arguments in her own defence, of daily 
accusations of her boy, the maternal love in her heart 


270 


dick’s wandering. 


would by no means be denied. This love had arisen 
again and again to accuse her of wicked pride. More 
and more it had seemed to her that the chief cause of 
her anger against her boy was her own pride, and not 
loyalty to her husband. And so little by little she had 
passed almost to the other extreme ; until the recollec- 
tion of Dick’s shortcomings was all but lost in that of 
her own want of tenderness. To atone for this she had 
done all she could. She had visited Dick’s tenants, 
looked after his cottages, dusted his books with her own 
hand, and even inspected his horses. She had written 
him long accounts of everything at home. She had 
done all she could ; and yet there had remained to her 
hours of leisure and of solitude, in which she had been 
possessed by an awful fear that she had estranged her 
only child. She told herself that she had let him go 
coldly ; and though she had repented her want of ten- 
derness, she feared that her repentance might be too late. 
Then in her fear she would betake herself to prayer ; 
and at such times the loss of the land, and of all the tan- 
gible good things of the world, had seemed as nothing 
in comparison with the loss of love. And thus it hap- 
pened, that when Dick ran up the steps to meet her, and 
she felt in a moment that he loved her as warmly as 
ever, a weight had been lifted from her, of which this 
well-loved son had no conception. Held in his strong 
arms she had begun to cry quietly ; and, as she closed 
her eyes to keep back the tears, she liad felt such pleas- 
ure in leaning on another’s strength, as she had not felt 
ftince her husband died. All that was weak and wom- 
anly in her girlhood, before she taught herself to decide 
and to act on her own responsibility — all her inborn de- 
sire of guidance — seemed to have risen like a flood 
over her self-reliance and her pride. 


DICK’S WANDERING. 


271 


‘‘ And I don’t half believe it ’s you,” said Dick, as he 
sat beside his mother on the sofa ; you look pale, and 
I see white lines in your hair. You have n’t been tak- 
ing care of yourself.” 

You must take care of your old mother now,” she 
said, with a complete and blissful forgetfulness, for the 
time being, of her old strong desire to take care of 
him. 

Dick pressed her hand for answer. She could not 
have said anything which would have pleased him more. 
He was ready to place the care of her, side by side with 
the achievement of something for the public good, as the 
chief business of his life. He was very glad to be on 
these terms with his mother, — and by no means sur- 
prised. He remembered with satisfaction that he had 
foreseen the effect of a short absence ; the change 
seemed only natural ; he had a very faint idea of the 
pain with which the change had been accompanied. As 
the peaceful days went by, he often congratulated him- 
self on his mother ; and when uneasy moments came, he 
was always good-tempered and considerate. Sometimes 
she could not refrain from remarks on new ideas, on the 
certainty of the young as contrasted with the experience 
of their elders. More often she showed some remnant 
of the former sense of injury by refraining from giving 
an opinion, or prefacing it with an apology. But these 
uneasy moments grew ever more rare; as her pride 
in her management was remoulded into pride in his 
strength and energy; as the habit of standing alone 
gave way to the earlier inclination to lean upon anoth- 
er’s strength with trust and love. Then as she yielded, 
Dick busied himself more and more with little plans for 
ner pleasure. He was careful to adapt himself to all the 


272 


dick’s wandering. 


details of her management of the house ; and when he 
was guilty of forgetfulness indoors, he would hurry out 
to confer some benefit on one of her favorite old women 
in the village. And it was not long before he was able 
to crown these trifling acts of kindness with something 
more important; for after a close inspection of his 
finances he casually told her one morning that, what 
ever else he might do in his life, he should never sell 
the place, which she loved. An outlying farm or two 
he might part with some day ; but Glaring itself, with 
its old park about it, he would be rich enough to keep 
for himself and his heirs in spite of all experiments. 
“ Thanks to you,” he said, “ and to the best agent in 
Europe, I am abominably rich — rich enough for a 
dozen hobbies, and for a good home for you and me.” 

“ For you and your wife,” she said softly ; but she 
did not look at him as she said it, for her eyes were full 
of tears. She felt a great relief ; but there was still a 
question which she longed to ask, but would not. She 
wanted to ask him if, when he married, he would settle 
the estate according to the good old custom, though he 
had refused to do so when he came of age ; but in spite 
of her eagerness a remnant of pride kept her silent. 
However, she had not long to wait. Dick, with his 
usual desire to remove all possibility of deceiving any- 
body, proceeded to tell her in the liveliest manner, that 
he would never limit his power of doing what he liked 
with the place. We ’ll keep it,” he said, “ you and 
I ; but we won’t tie our hands. We ’ll do nothing on 
compulsion. We ’re all for freedom, ain’t we, mother ? ” 
Then she sighed, but she did not withdraw herself from 
the arm which he passed round her as he stooped to 
look for approval in her face. 


dick’s wandering. 


273 


There were other matters to be discussed between 
mother and son in these early days of their renewed 
companionship. She asked questions about Osbert 
Langdon ; and he about Betty Torington. Each asked, 
as if the other were to some extent responsible for the 
conduct of the brother or sister ; and neither was sat- 
isfied with the answer. Dick had made up his mind to 
say nothing about his adventure in the forest of Bel- 
grade, lest he should be driven by embarrassing ques- 
tions and his own extraordinary truthfulness to the ad- 
mission of Ossie’s bad behavior. The consequence of 
his silence was that Sophie Hartland blamed him in her 
heart for abandoning his wayward cousin in foreign 
parts without due cause ; and that she was inclined to 
think that this strange conduct of his was wholly due to 
that young American lady, of whom a diquieting rumor 
had reached her. On the other hand, when Dick heard 
from his mother that Betty in the first season of her 
married life had been absorbed by the gayest and gid- 
diest section of society, and that consequently she had 
scarcely seen her, he was inclined to blame Mrs. Hart- 
land for not going out more in spite of her shrinking 
from the world. It was clear that Mrs. Torington had 
enjoyed a triumph, by which that of Miss Langdon was 
pale ; and that for that reason she had needed some 
older and wiser woman to look after her. Of course 
Lady Raeborough had dropped her crumbs of good 
advice ; but Lady Raeborough with all her circles of 
society around her could never have found time for the 
duties of duenna. And so, as Mrs. Hartland said noth- 
ing of her own efforts and anxieties, and but little of 
Betty’s amiable obstinacy, Dick could not help blaming 
his mother a little for allowing his charming cousin to 


274 


dick’s wandering. 


be talked about. There was no hiding the fact that 
Mrs. Torington had been talked about ; and — and this 
was the least agreeable detail — her name had been too 
often mentioned with that of a particular individual. 
It was the name of this individual which increased 
Dick’s annoyance tenfold; for the man was Harold 
Dolamore. “ You don’t think,” he said to his mother, 
‘‘ that she cares a rap for the fellow, do you ? I ’ve 
nothing particular to say against him ; but I ’m certain 
he’s not fit to black Tory’s boots.” 

“ I am sure that Betty’s a dear good child,” said Mrs. 
Ilartland softly, but with certainty ; ‘‘ but she loves at- 
tention and admiration ; she likes to be amused better 
than anything in the world.” 

“ Better than poor dear old Tory, for instance ? ” 

“ Yes, I am afraid so. She does n’t understand him, 
and he ’s too proud to speak.” 

“ You could make him talk to you. People always 
like to confide in you, mother.” 

I tried to make him talk to me,” Mrs. Hartland said 
with a smile and a faint blush, which vanished in a mo- 
ment ; ‘‘ but he said nothing except that Betty was 
beautiful, and that it was no wonder that she was so 
much admired. They make a very handsome couple.” 

“ It ’s no good their making a handsome couple,” said 
Dick sagely, “ if they don’t get on well together. There 
must be some stupid mistake somewhere ; it ’s absurd 
that they should n’t be the happiest people in the world ; 
we ’ll put it right, you and I, — won’t we, mother ? ” 

Sophie Hartland shook her head, but she smiled as 
she shook it. She began to think that this brave boy of 
hers could do a great deal. 

“ You see, my d(‘ar lady,” continued Dick, “ one 


dick’s wandering. 


275 


must n’t expect too much from young women. One 
must expect a good deal of variety. They all like a bit 
of flirtation, — in some shape or other.” 

There was something in this speech which made Mrs. 
Ilartland look at her son with grave questioning eyes. 
She thought that he would not have said these things 
about women a year ago ; that he certainly received the 
news of Betty’s folly, which, harmless as it was, had 
given occasion to malicious tongues, with an easy tolera- 
tion, which he would not have shown a year ago. A 
few months had changed this young man’s view of the 
other sex ; and his mother, so soon as she felt the 
change, ascribed it all in an instant to the influence of 
that American girl. 

Very often, as Mrs. Hartland sat with her son or 
strolled with him on the terrace, she was tempted to say 
something of this fascinating Miss Holcroft, of whom 
she had read first in one of Ossie’s rare and rambling 
epistles ; but she always stopped herself. As Dick chose 
to say nothing, she was too proud to ask questions. She 
very soon discovered that while he talked freely of the 
pleasant days of his wandering, he said hardly anything 
about his American friends. He dismissed Mr. Holcroft 
as an agreeable and well-informed man, who was accom- 
panied by a daughter ; as they were going the same way, 
they had seen something of each other ; and it seemed 
that that was all. At least, that was all which Dick 
said ; but his mother’s instinct told her that there was 
something more. In the midst of all her happiness in 
the reunion with her boy, this centre of disquiet re- 
mained. She was very curious about this Boston girl, 
but she would not ask any questions. She promised 
herself that she would never allude to the subject, unless 


276 


dick’s wandering. 


he spoke first ; and that meanwhile she would dismiss it 
from her mind once for all. Nevertheless, it was not 
dismissed once for all, but, on the contrary, required dis- 
missal many times a day. She began to prepare herself 
for another disappointment, for she thought that the si- 
lence of this frank, outspoken boy was a very bad sign. 
She told herself that, as he had been obstinate about the 
land, so would he be about a wife ; that, since he was 
so self-willed, and since he knew even less than other 
men about w'omen, she must be prepared for his choos- 
ing the wrong one. However wise he were growing, 
he was sure to be foolish in this matter. What could 
be more wrong than an American girl ? She had read 
about Americans, and had seen them in hotels on the 
continent. She thought that they were pushing, shrill 
people. As for the girls, everybody knew that they 
were frivolous, overdressed, always demanding admira- 
tion, superficially clever, ready to chatter on all sub- 
jects, dangerously attractive, and pretty with a pretti- 
ness which could not last. Mrs. Ilartland could imagine 
no wife less fit for an English country gentleman ; and 
therefore she could imagine nothing more likely than 
that Dick would marry such a wife. She prepared her- 
self for this, or for some like disappointment. As she 
moved about the gardens or park, she was haunted by 
this imagined lady of Boston, who perhaps would some 
day reign there in her stead. Between her and the 
broad respectful countenance of the housekeeper, with 
whom she held solemn conference, the little thin, pert 
face of her fancied successor intruded itself with provok- 
ing persistence. Of course, she had always kept stead- 
ily before her the fact that she would have to abdicate 
«ome day ; but the prospect was none the less unpleas- 


DICK S WANDERING. 


277 


ant for being kept steadily before her. She assured 
herself that to the right woman — a sweet wife of the 
old English pattern, who would live to make Dick happy 
— she could surrender her keys without a pang ; but it 
was hard to contemplate the picture of a foreign impor- 
tation — a frivolous doll dressed by a Parisian tailor — 
as mistress of Glaring. She resolved, however, that 
nothing, which he might do or leave undone in the fu- 
ture, should alienate her again from her boy. She re- 
solved also that, when she was dowager, she would never 
interfere with her daughter-in-law, nor even offer a word 
of advice except under great pressure. She thought 
that she would have to live a long way off. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 


Dick thought that he was rapidly forgetting the 
young lady who had perplexed him ; and he was even a 
little surprised at the rapidity of the process. Indeed, 
his first feeling after the farewell visit to Miss Holcroft 
had been wonder at his own cheerfulness. He was 
scarcely clear of the Dardanelles before he had regained 
a repose of spirit which he had not known for many 
days. Where were those pangs which in secret he had 
half expected ? Their absence proved to his satisfaction 
that he had not been in love, — not even a little. A 
shade of regret crossed his spirit that he had not had 
that strange experience. Some natural, if sentimental, 
regret he had felt; then he had laughed again and 
abandoned himself to that pleasure of movement which 
to him was only second to action. He had laughed 
aloud at the thought that he could change his-thoughts 
and feelings with the sky ; nor was he wholly wrong, 
though Horace was more right. 

Once at home in England Dick would have asserted 
without a shadow of doubt that, if he had ever needed 
cure, his cure was now complete. He made up his 
mind to say nothing to his mother, because he was cer- 
tain that there was really nothing to say ; and that to 
talk about a girl always raised presumptions. By this 
prudent course he succeded in filling the mind of his 
mother, whom he intended to save from the least anxi- 
sty, with the liveliest apprehension. Silence is a thing 


dick’s wandering. 


279 


which few women either like or understand. As it is 
certain that Dick made a mistake in this treatment of 
his mother, so it is probable at least that he was to 
some extent mistaken about his own condition. It is at 
least remarkable that the young lady, whom he was 
sure that he had never loved, was so often in his 
thoughts. He was always going over the past in search 
of fresh evidence of her levity. He recalled most tri- 
fling details of her manner and her looks with a fre- 
quency, which was out of all proportion to the impor- 
tance of such matters. He never failed to convince him- 
self that the lady was a flirt, and that he was luckily 
unharmed ; and yet it is remarkable that he convinced 
himself of these acts so often. It was the last mo- 
ment of their final interview which remained most vivid ; 
and again and again he assured himself that there was 
nothing in it but the last pose of the coquette, — the 
graceful action on which the curtain fell when the little 
comedy was over. He was sorry for her ; he allowed 
himself to pity her. It seemed so pitiful that a girl, 
who certainly had a fine nature, amid the follies and 
philanderings of the world should have grown baser 
year by year ; should be intent on doing mischief instead 
of good ; should be so blind to her conduct, that she 
would have thought herself injured if men called her 
flirt. Hers was a life too paltry for her ; and she did 
not see its paltriness. He pitied her. As for him, he 
was free ; and he drew deep breaths of his native air, 
rejoicing in his liberty. He assured himself that he was 
free. 

From idle thoughts and recurring memories of the 
manners of young women, Dick turned eagerly to the 
search cf something to do. He could not walk about 


280 


dick’s wandering. 


all day with his mother, though he was very happy in 
their renewed friendliness. He was impelled to do 
something, but he could find little to be done. His 
property and his accounts were in beautiful order. Even 
the farmers found little to ask for. They were busy 
with the harvest, which was plentiful. Dick began to 
be hungry for a little discontent. He gave new life to 
the cricket in the park ; he began to exercise his horses ; 
he interested himself in the prospect of partridges and 
pheasants. But such trivial occupations did not content 
him. He wanted to do something serious. Impatient 
of sentimental memories he began to exercise his mind 
more and more on political affairs. 

The year which was now drawing to a close had been 
full of stirring events, fuller still of stirring rumors. 
The advance of the Russian army on Constantinople ; 
the answering passage of the British fleet through the 
Dardanelles ; the angry debates in the Houses of Par- 
liament ; the mob meetings and war panic ; all these 
things had excited Dick’s interest before his departure 
^or the Levant. But it was the sight of Stamboul it- 
self, of the circle of Turkish troops around the city, of 
Russian officers wandering in the street of Pera or 
making purchases in the Bazaar, — it was the sight of 
such things as these which made the young Englishman 
realize the excitement of the statesmanship, which deals 
with nations. Filled with a double portion of this in- 
terest he had returned home in time to hear the applause 
which greeted the triumphant return of the Envoys 
from Berlin ; and to consider the opposing criticisms, 
which not even the flood of congratulations could over- 
whelm. Dick still held that the land, without which 
man has neither place to stand nor food to'^eat, should 


dick’s wandering. 


281 


be the chief study of the politician ; but nevertheless 
he began to feel the fascination of the great game of 
international complications. 

After the signature of the Berlin Treaty he received 
a significant letter from Fabian Deane, who was full of 
wrath with all the Great Powers, and with their rep- 
resentatives, of whom he proclaimed the most injurious 
suspicions. Fabian had so far deviated from his plan 
of returning home from Damascus, that he had been 
roaming Europe like an unquiet spirit, and glaring at 
all prominent persons in a way which ought to have 
kept him permanently under the eye of the police. In 
July he had appeared duly at Berlin ; he had almost 
persuaded himself that he had a secret mission of the 
utmost importance. However, when the Conference 
was at an end, he found that nobody expected a report ; 
and as it was impossible for him not to write one, he 
discharged it at Dick. He denounced the Treaty as a 
sham, which decided nothing finally ; and which left the 
thing which needed decision most untouched. As to 
the future of Constantinople no arrangement had been 
made ; and the Golden Horn remained as before, the 
standing menace to the peace of Europe. After empty- 
ing the vials of his wrath on all diplomatists of what- 
ever country, he favored Dick with his own short scheme 
for putting an end to the Eastern Question forever. 

‘‘ I cannot help believing,” he wrote, “ that I am pos- 
sessed by a magnificent idea. It came to me like a flash, 
as I was thinking of Todleben at San Stephano, and the 
dead Pope in the Vatican. The rule of the Turk in 
Europe is at an end. The only question is. Who is 
to have Constantinople ? I answer. The new Pope ! 
The more I think of it, the more incomprehensible it is 


282 


dick’s wandering. 


to me, that uot one of these tinkering and chaffering mis- 
named Statesmen of the Conference have thought of 
this. The presence of a Pope in Rome is impossible. 
A free and progressive Italy cannot long tolerate a cen- 
tre of disaffection at its heart. Between the Pope and 
Garibaldi the position of its king will become intolerable. 
The Pope must go. Whither ? To a small territory, 
which he can govern as a temporal prince ; which is out- 
side and independent of any European power ; in the 
enjoyment of which he shall be secured by all Christian 
nations. Place him firmly in Constantinople — and mark 
what follows ! Italy breathes again freed of her night- 
mare. Russia, Austria, and Greece — each resigns her 
dream for ever, content that the others reign also ; and 
with their mutual jealousies the greatest danger to the 
peace of Europe is removed. As for the Turks, these 
most phlegmatic fanatics, who, as you wrote to me, be- 
held with equanimity single Russian officers in conspicu- 
ous uniforms swaggering in their streets at night, may 
be trusted to receive the Pope with indifference. The 
great mongrel population, more or less Christian, will re- 
ceive him with delight as a novelty, and as good for 
trade. A few Mahometans will cross over into Asia ; 
and will presently find at Bagdad, or Mecca, or some- 
where a new centre of the faith of Mohammed under 
a Caliph or Sheriff or whatever he is. Of course you 
know about El Mehdi. The Arab tribes are already 
drawing together. An Arab Empire dawns in the East. 
The Sultan, who has no right to be anything, must be 
chucked into the Bosphorus or presented with rooms in 
the Albany. I hope I have given you a sketch of the 
great features of my plan. It is stupendous ; but I am 
writing in such a hurry to catch the post, that I don’t 


dick’s wandering. 


283 


feel sure that I have put it clearly. Think of it, my 
dear boy. It is practical people like you that I propose 
to interest. Yours, as ever, Fabian Deane.” 

Though Dick could not help thinking his friend’s 
scheme a little Utopian, this letter went with many 
other things to swell his growing interest in the wider 
political questions. Nor was he long content with in- 
terest alone. He was tired of books and pamphlets. 
He was ever growing more eager to have a hand in the 
business, or at least a finger in the pie. So as a practi- 
cal young man he looked to the nearest means ; and the 
nearest means were at Redgate. He wrote to Mr. Kirby ; 
and from the guarded answer of that gentleman he 
gathered that the secret of his change of constituents 
was now so open, that all the world might read it. The 
statesman wrote in haste, but promised the full benefit 
of his advice at a later date ; as soon as London could 
spare him, he was to seek complete change and refresh- 
ment in Scotland ; but before the end of September he 
would come to Glaring, review his young cousin’s pros- 
pects at Redgate, and place his ponderous influence in 
the scales. Upon the receipt of this promise Dick deter- 
mined to see for himself how things were in the borough 
before the present member came down to see for him. 
As he was bent on trusting no eyes nor ears but his own, 
he avoided the local attorney also. Armed with nothing 
but a short list of leading tradesmen on a half sheet of 
note paper, he drove himself into Redgate one pleasant 
afternoon, left his trap at the Liberal Inn, and started 
alone on a round of visits. He was confident of com- 
plete success. He expected to be met with optm arms. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


Mr. Hartland had many reasons for confidence. It 
was generally supposed that the Glaring influence was 
powerful in Redgate, which supplied most of the things 
necessary for the house. Certainly Dick thought him- 
self a person of some importance in that neighborhood, 
and he was moreover fortified by his usual belief that 
the world would treat him well, and would recognize the 
excellence of his motives. He stepped across the mar- 
ket-place, which was now beautified by that Gothic 
drinking-fountain, to the building of which Mr. Kirby 
had contributed so liberally ; and he felt as if he were 
going to confer a favor on the place. He expected that 
the few worthy tradesmen, to whom he was about to 
mention his wishes, would be flattered by his selection 
and liberal of their support. Happy in this idea he 
walked into the chemist’s shop, and saluted Mr. Hopkins 
with great friendliness. Mr. Hopkins, for all his virtues, 
was perhaps not too pleasing to the general eye. His 
face, which was of the same color as his pale sandy hair 
and feeble whisker, was only saved from insignificance 
by a certain pertness of nose. Time could find little to 
work on in the color or form of this thriving chemist, 
who might have been of any age between twenty-five 
and fifty. 

What can I do for you, sir ? ” asked Mr. Hopkins ; 
nobody ill at ’ome I ’ope ? ” He smiled a watery 
smile, and he protruded his inquisitive face with the air 


dick’s wandering. 


285 


of a tlirush expectant above a worm. Wlien Dick told 
him, as be proceeded to do without a minute’s unneces- 
sary delay, that he thought of standing for the place, 
the chemist’s expression of self-satisfaction was intensi- 
fied to an extraordinary degree. ‘‘ Will you oblige me 
})y stepping in, sir ? ” he said with a business-like air, as 
he opened the door of his sanctum behind the shop. 
When Dick sat down, Mr. Hopkins with a faint smile of 
apology seated himself also ; they were no longer shop- 
man and customer ; they were influential voter and as- 
piring candidate. Dick, finding that Mr. Kirby’s re- 
tirement was no secret in the place, proceeded, as he 
liad made up his mind to do, to give a few reasons why 
he himself should be the successor. He had determined 
to give his views on the chief questions of the day as 
shortly as possible ; but he could scarcely help laughing, 
as he began to discourse to the little man, who sat op- 
posite to him on the edge of a chair and rubbed his 
hands between his knees. Nor did he find it easy to 
go far in his confession of political faith ; for the little 
man was bent on giving his own views. He interrupted 
every moment with “ Allow me, sir,” or, If you will 
allow me, I will explain to you,” till Dick put his hands 
in his pockets and resigned himself to listening. But 
though Mr. Hopkins had an air so instructive that any 
on-looker would have supposed that he was imparting 
all the wisdom of the Egyptians to a young disciple, 
and though he made frequent use of such expressions 
as I think I can make my meaning clear,” and, 
“Now what the burrer wants is” — nevertheless it is a 
fact that his select audience had but the faintest idea of 
the meaning of his speech. At last, however, a gleam 
of light appeared. As Dick rose to go, Mr. Hopkins 


286 


dick’s wandering. 


made haste to say, “ Yes sir ; I have little doubt that 
we can fiad a common footin’ ; of course you are not in 
favor of cooperation ? ” lie stood and smiled, half ser- 
vile, half condescending, as if he were wheedling a su- 
perior, and at the same time questioning a child about 
matters probably beyond his comprehension. 

“ Cooperation ? ” said Dick ; ‘‘ it ’s rather a disap- 
pointment so far. I thought it would do more.” 

“ It ’as done more than enough, I think, sir,” said 
the chemist. 

“ You mean cooperation for selling things. I don’t 
think I care much about that. It ’s cooperation for 
making things which I still hope may do great things 
for the working-man.” 

You will find a very strong feelin’ against coopera- 
tion.” 

‘‘ Yes, but you see the difference, don’t you ? ” said 
Dick ; and being now started on a familiar course he 
began to explain the difference between cooperation for 
production and cooperation for distribution. As he pro- 
ceeded with his explanation, he saw that Mr. Hopkins 
shook his sandy head, and that he smiled as if he would 
like to say that he was too old a bird to be caught with 
chaff of this kind, while he could hear the worm in the 
ground. Dick felt that the chemist thought him an in- 
genious deceiver for his years, and was paying him a 
silent compliment on his astuteness. This annoyed him 
a little, and made him cut his explanation short. 
“ There’s as much difference as between light and dark- 
ness, though you may n’t be able to see it,” he said 
shortly ; “ good-by. We ’ll talk about it some other 
day.” Mr. Hopkins bowed his visitor out ; he was not 
angry ; he was conscious that he could afford to ignore 


DICK^S WANDERING. 287 

any doubts of his power of seeing anything which it 
was worth his while to see. 

Dick laughed at himself, when he was outside the 
shop, for being annoyed by the little chemist ; but it 
was with a refreshing perception of a strong contrast 
that he saw the burly butcher, Mr. Bosher, smiling upon 
him from his doorway. A goodly array of meat hung 
on Mr. Bosher’s left hand, but for the moment he had 
nothing better to do than to smile broadly on the empty 
street. The sight of the young squire, which was as- 
sociated with a steady consumption of joints, made the 
worthy butcher smile more broadly still ; and Dick, as 
he crossed the street, grinned with almost equal genial- 
ity. 

Going to stand, are yer ? ’’ said Mr. Bosher, when 
lie had at last grasped the fact. That ’s right ; that ’s 
capital ; ha, ha, ha ; and which are yer ? Russian or 
Turk ? ” 

‘‘ I ’m for neither,” said Dick, who was pleased to see 
an interest in foreign politics ; and he would have gone 
on to state his reasons for refusing complete sympathy 
to either of the recent belligerents had not he been 
stopped by the noisy approbation of his friend the 
butcher. 

‘‘ That ’s right, sir,” said Mr. Bosher ; ‘‘ yer right 
again. I can’t abide a Russian myself ; but then they 
do tell me that the Turks live on rice, and I could n’t 
find it in my conscience to go with them as eats rice ; 
it ’s not to be expected.” 

Certainly not,” said Dick laughing ; it ’s not to be 
expected of a butcher.” 

That ’s it,” cried Mr. Bosher, amazed at the young 
candidate’s quickness of perception, “ that ’s it, sir. I 
13 


288 


dick’s wandering. 


can see you know what ’s what. I stood by Mr. Kirby : 
and I see no reason why I should n’t stand by you, sir ; 
no reason whatever ! ” 

‘‘ I ask for nothing better,” said Dick. 

“ I ’ve had a deal of kindness from Glaring,” contin- 
ued the other heartily, “ and a deal of custom ; and I go 
for anybody from Glaring, as is a true Briton, and eats 
his beef like a Briton, and is dead against cooperation.” 

Dick started and looked keenly at the butcher. lie 
wondered if all these prominent voters had this word on 
the tip of their tongues. Of course he would not leave 
Mr. Bosher under any misapprehension for a moment ; 
and he was beginning to explain the difference between 
the cooperation for which he cared nothing, and that 
which he approved, when the hearty butcher broke in 
again. ‘‘Well, well, sir,” he said, “I don’t pretend to 
know much about these things. I mostly go with 
Peaseley ; he looks into these things ; he ’s a pushing 
feller, Peaseley, and gives a deal of attention to politics. 
Have yer seen Peaseley ? ” 

“ I ’m going to him,” said Dick with a glance at his 
half-sheet of paper. 

“ That ’s right, sir ; you can ’t do better, though I say 
it.” Then, as Dick was turning away, Mr. Bosher put 
a broad red hand on his arm, and added in a hoarse 
whisper, “ No offence, I hope, sir. I do mistrust that 
cooperation ; but I can ’t afford to quarrel with Glaring 
Park, as you know, sir. Quarrellin’ in that direction 
would n’t suit my book — nor my books neither ; ha, 
ha, ha ! ” 

“ Look here,” said Dick, who now felt twice as 
strongly that all possible misconception must be re- 
moved ; “ I hope you don ’t think that, if you did all 


dick’s wandering. 289 

you could against me in an election, there would be a 
chop the less ordered from home.” 

“Well, sir” — began Mr. Bosher with the broad, 
open smile of one, who knew what elections were, and 
was not going to be hard on a genial candidate ; but 
Dick interrupted him curtly. “ If you do think so,” he 
said, “ make haste to think the opposite. On my honor 
I’m more likely to order a chop extra, if you vote 
against me.” 

The burly butcher stood staring after this extraor- 
dinary candidate with some offence in his heart. He 
could not understand him, and being somewhat slow- 
witted he was apt to be offended by the unintelligible. 

And now Dick was eager to make two more visits, 
and thus to finish for the present a business which he 
found less amusing than he had expected. So he stepped 
quickly into the shop of Mr. Ovey, the baker, and made 
that mild-mannered man jump by the suddenness with 
which he announced his wishes. Mr. Ovey, who had a 
nervous temperament, clung to the counter with one 
hand, and pressed the other to his breast. In this posi- 
tion be glanced again and again at the glass door, which 
separated him from the parlor, while he feebly ejacu- 
lated, “Oh, indeed sir; oh sir! I’m sure it’s very 
kind of you — quite a privilege, I ’m sure, sir.” And 
now the glass door was opened, and Mrs. Ovey, who 
had listened to Dick’s opening statement, appealed in 
all her dignity, her gown of warm brown stuff, and her 
cap with ribbons in it. “ Pray come in and bo seated, 
sir,” she said ; and her little husband followed the can- 
didate into the room. “We shall be very glad to hear,” 
said Mrs. Ovey judicially, “what you have to say.” 
Dick, seated opposite to this ample lady, who in her 


290 


dick’s wandering. 


majesty seemed to him like a judge crowned with artifi- 
cial flowers, found it hard to preserve a proper gravity. 
To make a declaration of his political faith to a stout 
woman, while the legal voter was twitching and gasp- 
ing in the background, seemed to the young candidate 
supremely ridiculous. Nevertheless he began a brief 
statement of his views ; but he had not advanced far 
when Mrs. Ovey interrupted him by asking if he had 
been to Mr. Peaseley. When Dick said that he had 
not yet seen Mr. Peaseley, the lady’s severity increased 
and was even tinged with a little suspicion. She pursed 
her lips and nodded her cap. “ We do not like to say 
much,” she said, “until we know what Mr. Peaseley 
will do. My husband is unfortunately subject to biliary 
affections, and is rendered nervous by politics. We 
generally find it more conducive to — to what is most 
conducive, to go with Mr. Peaseley. Mr. Peaseley gives 
much attention to politics, and is a vigorous opponent 
against cooperation.” 

“ Yes, yes,” muttered Mr. Ovey, hastily ; “ coopera- 
tion, that ’s the thing to guard against ; it ’s dreadful ; 
it ’s ” — but the rest of his hurried speech was lost in a 
fit of nervous coughing. 

“ I ’ll go and see Peaseley,” said Dick. In the street 
he stood still a moment to laugh. This was a strange 
experience for him, and though he laughed, he was not 
sure that he liked it. These people in spite of various 
degrees of civility were all distinctly patronizing ; and 
their manners were quite unlike those, which he had oh- 
served, first, when as a boy, he used to go shopping in 
Redgate with his mother. He wondered how much of 
the change was due to the progress of enlightenment, 
and how much to the difference between a customer and 
a candidate. 


dick’s wandering. 


291 


However, Dick had now grasped one fact ; and that 
was something. Peaseley was evidently the man, whom 
it was worth while to talk to ; and since Peaseley was 
an influential politician, it might be presumed that he 
was aware of the distinction between cooperation for 
making things, and cooperation for selling and buying 
them when made. So with renewed hopefulness Dick 
strode down the street and entered the grocer’s roomy 
shop. Mr. Peaseley was standing behind the counter, 
and as he turned from a little girl who had just com- 
pleted the purchase of a candle and a dried herring, he 
displayed to Dick a broad tallowy face and a bald bulg- 
ing forehead. His civil smile betrayed the absence of 
front teeth. His long, upper lip was shaved clean ; but 
from beneath descended a veil of yellow-gray beard, 
which reached his ample and rather greasy waistcoat. 
His manner was bland and even unctuous ; he attached a 
great value to it ; one of his secret thoughts was that, 
had his conscience permitted him to conform with the 
Established Church, he would have made a beautiful 
bishop. To this Episcopal grocer Dick addressed him- 
self ; and when he said that he had been referred to 
him by several people, the worthy man smiled more 
widely and bowed with dignity. He heard Mr. Hart- 
land’s wishes with well-regulated interest, — without 
either surprise or excitement. Then he asked in his 
smoothest tone if he would honor him by stepping into 
his private room ; and furtively wiping his hands on the 
inside of his apron he ushered him into that apartment. 
After this he listened to the young candidate no more, 
but proceeded to deliver an address which gave himself 
At least much calm enjoyment. He politely but obsti- 
nately ignored the listener’s occasional comments ; he 


292 


dick’s wandering* 


flowed on with much pleasure in well-rounded mouth- 
filling words, and deplored the awful condition of the 
country, which, though a consistent Liberal, he could 
not but regard with horror and dismay. He shook his 
bald head over Socialism, Communism, Nihilism, Athe- 
ism ; and finally ended his oration by asking Dick if, 
in the event of his being returned to the House of Com- 
mons, he would bring in a Bill for the suppression of 
cooperation. 

“ You mean Stores ? ” asked Dick. The word 
seemed to pain Mr. Peaseley, who shook his head 
slowly over the depravity of human nature. 

“ There can be no question of making laws against 
Cooperative Stores,” said Dick. “ People have as 
much right to combine for trading purposes, as they 
have to part their hair on which side they like.” Per- 
haps the illustration was unfortunate, since Mr. Pease- 
ley’s yellow-gray hairs were drawn in slender lines over 
his excessive skull. He certainly spoke as if he were 
rebuking wickedness in high places, when he said, “ I 
deeply regret to find that you are in favor of coopera- 
tion.” In spite of his regret he seemed to taste the word 
as if he liked it. 

“ I know nothing about Cooperative Stores/* said 
Dick, “ and I ’ve had nothing to do with them.” Then 
he went on to explain once more that the cooperation 
in which he felt an interest was the combination of 
workmen for making things ; and he added that, unless 
he was strangely mistaken, this cooperation could in no 
way interfere with shopmen, who could buy their goods 
just as well from a company of workingmen as from a 
single manufacturer. To this explanation Mr. Peaseley 
listened as if this were one more attempt to extend the 


dick’s wandering. 


293 


damning influence of Socialism, Communism, Nihilism, 
and Atheism by the misuse of language, the drawing 
of false distinctions by sophistical subtlety. Though he 
preserved the full urbanity of his manner, as he bowed 
his visitor from his door, there was a disagreeable look 
about his loose lips ; he was placidly offensive to Mrs- 
Peaseley when he joined her at the tea-table ; he had 
the air of a suffering, if ponderous angel, when he 
found that she had forgotten the muffins. 

As Dick drove himself from Redgate, he looked bacL 
on his late experiment without satisfaction. He had 
often declared that the want of a mutual understanding 
between the shopkeeping class and the workingmen was 
one of the chief sources of danger to the country ; but 
nothing had made him realize this want so thoroughly 
as the obstinate refusal of these tradesmen to understand 
the meaning of cooperation of artisans. “ The grounds 
of my objection,” he said to himself, imitating the pro- 
nunciation and slow unctuous delivery of Mr. Peaseley. 
He felt that he should like to drop on Mr. Peaseley ’s 
bulbous head the largest of his cheeses. He let the 
reins drop on his old mare’s back, as he began to think 
if he could not do something, in his own neighborhood 
at least, to make the shopkeepers and workmen under- 
stand each other better. At last an idea came to him, 
which made him look up quickly. He saw that the sun 
was low, and tightening his reins he spoke to his old 
beast, who rarely needed any further urging. He 
thought that he had one of those fortunate inspirations, 
which came to such lucky fellows as himself. Inside 
Glaring Park the mare was for turning to the house, 
but her driver guided her in the other direction ; ho 
drove out of the other gate into the village, called a 


294 


dick’s wandering. 


small boy to stand by the mare, and knocked at the door 
of Mr. Emmens, the cobbler. Emmens was still at 
work, though the light was failing. “ Did you ever 
lecture on cooperation ? asked Dick, as soon as he had 
said “ Good evening ! ” 

The cobbler was cautious as usual. ‘‘I may have 
said a few words on that subject,” he said, “ a good many 
years ago.” 

‘‘ Have you anything written ? Can I see it ? ” 

“ I may have something jotted down somewhere ; it 
may be of some use — and it may not.” Now Nicholas 
Emmens had carefully preserved all the lectures, which 
he had delivered in former days to fellow-workmen of a 
London Club. These lectures were the result of eager 
toil, and he could not bear the idea of having his faith 
in them shaken. In him there was always a contest be 
tween distrust of his narrow education, and a cultivated 
arrogance which led him to say, “ My ideas are as 
good as another’s, and, it may be, better.” At last, how- 
ever, he was persiiaded to produce the lecture. He lit 
a candle for Dick ; and then he picked up the boot, on 
which he was at work, as if the other’s opinion con- 
cerned him not a jot. The paper was a good plain 
statement of the principles of cooperation, with instances 
of its successful working. It seemed to Dick the very 
thing which was needed. Nicholas smiled grimly at Mr. 
Hartland’s enthusiasm ; but for all his self-repression his 
eye kindled at the thought of instructing a room full of 
tradesmen. He began to discuss the scheme, while his 
wife stood by smiling, and wondering that she should 
have a husband who could talk so cleverly with educated 
gentlefolk. 

“ How ’s the garden, Mrs Emmens ? ” asked Dick, as 
he was going. 


dick’s wandering. • 295 

“ Beautiful, sir,” she said ; “ he keeps it more beauti- 
ful than ever.” 

Her husband looked at her darkly but fondly. “ I 
sometimes think you’ve ruined me,” he said to Dick, 

by making me a landowner ; you ’ve made me too 
comfortable and happy ; you ’ve made me idle.” 

Dick wrung his hand ; ‘‘ I ’ve found you something 
to do this time,” he said. 

And that ’s another thing I ’ve got to say,” said 
Nicholas ; this lecturing may as likely as not do you 
no good, if you are going to stand for Redgate.” 

“ That don’t matter,” said Dick in great good humor. 
‘^The important thing is to get the truth into their 
heads. They ain’t bad fellows, if you take them the 
right way.” 

“ If you shake ’em well first,” said Nicholas Emmens 
grimly. 


CHAPTER XL. 


Mr. John Wilmadino Kirby was on his way to 
pay one of his pleasant informal bachelor visits to Glar- 
ing. He had left all his family well at home. His 
visits in Scotland and his conscientious pursuit of the 
grouse had done him a world of good. He was pleased 
with his health ; pleased with the still world of early 
autumn which he surveyed from the window of his rail- 
way carriage ; pleased above all with the work which he 
was going to do. He was going to make things smooth 
for his clever young kinsman at Redgate ; and he con- 
gratulated himself on the fact that nobody could make 
them so smooth as he. He liked to confer a benefit ; 
and, when the person to be benefited was of his own 
family, his liking almost amounted to a passion. To 
help those of his own blood was a duty which he hugged 
to himself with his whole heart. As he travelled 
smoothly forward, he pleased himself with a vision of 
the young squire introduced into the House under his 
ample wing ; and he even felt a generous throb of exul- 
tation at the success of his young kinsman’s manly and 
sensible maiden-speech. “ That young cousin of Kir- 
by’s ! ” he thought he heard the bigwigs saying to one 
another. 

Mr. Kirby alighted at Redgate station with abundant 
friendliness. He had a word for the porter, and a dozen 
words for the station-master ; he patted on the head a 
.ittle boy, whom he removed from his path ; and he 


dick’s wandering. 


297 


emerged into the afternoon light, and saw with pleasure 
that the Glaring brougham awaited him. But as the 
gratified porter held open the door of the carriage, the 
eye of Mr. Kirby chanced to fall on a large notice 
affixed to the neighboring wall. Since all public notices 
pasted on E-edgate walls demanded his best attention, 
the politician stopped to read ; and as he read, the fresh 
color of his face became rapidly intensified, and his lips 
began of themselves to utter powerful ejaculations. The 
notice stated that a lecture would be delivered at the 
Institute by Nicholas Emmens, cobbler of Glaring, on 
Gooperation, and that the chair would be taken punc- 
tually by Richard Hartland, Esq., of Glaring Park. The 
ejaculations died away on Mr. Kirby’s lips ; he was 
silent, as he hid himself in the brougham, and was 
driven away. But as he went, strange mutterings came 
to his relief, and fragments of speech. Poor dear 
boy ! ” he murmured ; “ damned young fool ! ” he mut- 
tered; and he exploded at intervals into fragments of 
pity and into smothered oaths. 

When Mr. Kirby shook Sophie Ilartland’s hand, she 
saw that he was red in the face, and she heard that his 
voice was hoarse. He could not bear to speak to her 
about this calamity ; but when Dick came to greet him 
with his usual smile of welcome, he could no longer re- 
strain himself. “ I hope you are content now,” he said ; 
“ you ’ve done with your chances ; you might as well 
stand for Bedlam as for Redgate after this.” 

“ After what ? ” asked Dick, though he guessed the 
cause of his great cousin’s disquiet. 

‘‘After what! After putting up an infernal com- 
munistical cobbler to give lectures on his infernal co- 
operation, — and putting yourself up as his patron be- 


298 


dick’s wandering. 


fore all the world ! It ’s — why, it ’s — and that infernal 
agitator Emmens of all men.” 

“ Oh come,” said Dick, “ Emmens is the quietest man 
in the village, and no more a Communist than I am. 
These Redgate shopmen don’t know the difference be- 
tween cooperation for production and cooperation for 
distribution ; and Emmens is to explain it. That ’s all. 
I hope the lecture will lead to others, and do some- 
thing to bring classes here together and make them un- 
derstand each other.” 

“ By — oh — don’t you see ” — began Mr. Kirby, 
walking up and down the room, but his feelings hindered 
his speech. “ Don’t you understand,” he said at last, 
that they never will understand the difference? What 
do they care about the difference, or any other difference ? 
They’ve only just learned the word; but they have 
learned it — and it frightens them. Don’t you know 
that it ’s the dam’dest stuff and nonsense to talk about 
explaining anything to these people ? ” 

“It’s lucky your constituents don’t hear you,” said 
Dick. 

“ The name of this infernal cobbler,” continued Mr. 
Kirby warming visibly to his work, “ stuck up on all the 
walls with your name — and, damn it ! the same size, 
too — must have done for you with every tradesman in 
Redgate! What on earth was Aveling about? lias 
he gone mad too ? ” 

“ I did n’t ask Aveling,” said Dick. “ I thought I 
wouldn’t go to a lawyer.” 

“ Not go to a lawyer ! good heavens ! ” 

It must be confessed that the prospects of Mr. Hart- 
land as candidate were not brilliant. Mr. Kirby bur- 
ned into Redgate on the very first morning of his visit, 


dick’s wandering. 


299 


and had a talk with Mr. Aveling the attorney. He re- 
turned calm, but hopeless. The lawyer expressed an 
opinion that the mischief was irreparable. He regretted 
to find a widespread belief among the voting class that 
Mr. Hartland was a dangerous young man, with opin- 
ions hostile to property, if not subversive of all morality 
and religion. He thought that after this unfortunate 
lecture, which would probably be but thinly attended, 
Dick had better keep quiet for as long as possible, and 
allow the unfortunate impression to wear out. If in the 
meantime the House could be filled with a succession of 
parties, and as little as possible ordered from London, 
Mr. Aveling thought that a healthier feeling might be 
slowly fostered in the borough. Mr. Kirby repeated 
the lawyer’s advice, but with no confidence. His man- 
ner was solemn. He said that he must reconsider his 
own plans ; that if, as was likely, the general election 
would not be long delayed, he thought that he must 
continue to represent Kedgate lest it should be lost to 
the Party ; that at any rate he must consult the Lead- 
ers of the Party. As he spoke of the Leaders of the 
Party his tone was almost funereal ; but presently his 
solemnity once more gave way, and he broke forth again 
into exclamations of regret and indignation. He was 
obliged to turn to the window and stare out across the 
terrace and the wooded valley below ; and Dick was 
very sorry for him, as he saw the roll of firm flesh be- 
tween his back hair and his stiff collar turn to a deeper 
red under the influence of emotion. 

Dick was very sorry for Mr. Kirby’s disappointment. 
It seemed to him natural and laudable in his kinsman to 
be eager for his presence in Parliament. He was sorry 
^Iso that he had damaged his own prospects, though he 


300 


dick’s wandering. 


did not for a moment believe that he had done the 
wrong thing. “ When one sees a good thing to do,” ho 
said, “ of course one must do it ; and if one can’t get into 
Parliament by that way, one had better stay outside.” 
And though such speeches only roused the politician to 
anger, the sentiment awakened a sympathy in Sophie 
Hartland which was very pleasant to her son. Mrs. 
Ilartland was beginning to look on Dick as a philan- 
thropist, as a kindly young prince condescending to 
make peace between two inferior classes ; she persuaded 
herself that her husband, who was always so consider- 
ate to his inferiors, would not have disapproved this 
action of their son. So Dick was happy and content to 
postpone his triumphant entry into the House of Com- 
mons ; although he more than half believed that when 
the crisis actually came he would carry all before him 
with a rush, and would be returned for Redgate by an 
overwhelming majority, with all his good intentions in 
his head, and his pockets full of plans for helping all 
sorts of people. Any way, he was prepared for either 
fortune. Still he was sorry to pain his old friend Kirby, 
and he sought to make some atonement by giving him 
some good partridge-shooting. But here again he was 
unfortunate ; for Mr. Kirby, who was often too slow in 
shooting at birds, looked everywhere for hares, and ex- 
pressed surprise and indignation at their scarcity. He 
had shot numberless hares at Glaring in former days, 
and he felt as if he was defrauded of a right. When 
he heard that his young host allowed his tenants to kill 
them on account of the roots, he had his final explosion 
of wrath. He affirmed that being a Liberal had nothing 
whatever to do with hares ; that he was as good a Lib- 
eral as any man ; that this fuss about hares and rabbits 


dick’s wandering. 


301 


was the dam’dest doctrinaire rubbish, and would be the 
ruin of England yet. He took leave of Sophie Hart- 
land with tears in his eyes ; he muttered and growled 
as he pressed Dick’s hand ; he had never taken so 
gloomy a view of the condition of the country. He 
felt that there was no consolation for him except in a 
consultation with the Leaders of the Party. 

In due time the night of the lecture came, and owing 
to Dick’s exertions and the desire to conciliate the Park 
so far as might be done without danger to society, the 
hall of the Institute was well filled. Neither Mr. Pease- 
ley nor Mr. Hopkins was present ; but in spite of this 
important opposition there was a fair show of local 
tradesmen. They greeted the young chairman with 
friendly applause ; he seemed so pleasant and spoke with 
so much friendliness that they could not help liking him ; 
most of them were in the habit of liking him, though 
they were all beginning to regard him as a feather- 
headed and unaccountable young man. Even in the 
very hall itself there was solemn and secret discussion 
of a paper, which the lawyer was preparing for the sig- 
natures of the most influential voters ; and this paper 
was to convey to Mr. John Wilmading Kirby the ear- 
nest prayer of the good people of Redgate that he would 
continue to represent them in Parliament. 

Though Dick was able to persuade himself on the 
evening of its delivery that the lecture had been a suc- 
cess, he took a truer view of it on the following morn- 
ing. He remembered that the lecturer had been re- 
ceived but coldly, and had finished his task in an at- 
mosphere yet more frigid. Nor was this wholly to be 
ascribed to a want of courtesy in the Redgate trades- 
men ; for Dick had not failed to notice that Nicholas 


302 


dick’s wandering. 


Emmens had been unable to resist the temptation to 
puzzle the worthy shopkeepers with occasional irony. 
The chairman had been several times on the verge of 
ill-timed laughter when both the lecturer and his au- 
dience were grave as judges. He blamed Nicholas, and 
yet not much ; he was quite sure that the audience whom 
he had taken such pains to collect had on their side 
taken no pains to understand what they heard. Any- 
way it was over, and that was a good thing. He hoped 
that some seeds of a better understanding had been 
sown. The task of educating a constituency seemed 
harder than he had thought ; he was content to postpone 
the next effort for a time, even though it might delay 
his entrance into public life. On that day at least he 
forgot to care about entering public life, which seemed 
to him to demand too many sacrifices of private opinion. 
He felt happy in his freedom. He ordered his horse, 
and his spirits rose as he cantered through the Park. 
He descended by a steep bridle-path into the valley, 
and emerged upon the road. Down the road he trotted 
briskly, and as he went, the beauty of the autumnal 
afternoon filled him with unusual delight. It was the 
end of September, and the great horse-chestnut which 
he passed was all pale-golden, and her fruit was on the 
ground. He looked up from the hollow, where the road 
dipped, and saw high over him the topmost leaves of 
a beech all bright red gold and gleaming. So he knew 
that the sun was low in the west, and about to set in 
glory. He pushed on his horse to where beyond the 
trees the bare hillside came steeply to the road ; and 
there the whole smooth-cropped slope was golden. Up 
the slope he rode as if to heaven. His heart beat high 
with glad confidence. Somewhere he would do some 


dick’s wandering. 


303 


good work, and his fellow men would see that it w^s 
good. Whether he were to sit in Parliament or no 
seemed a small matter ; somewhere he would find the 
fitting task, and do it with a will ; in the House or out 
of it, in the East or in the West, — somewhere he was 
destined to victory. Suddenly he burst out laughing 
at an incongruous thought. The West had come to his 
mind unbidden, and the next moment he had remem- 
bered a girl who had come from the West to trouble 
his young spirit. He laughed at this absurd descent 
from great ambitions to the memory of an episode so 
trivial. And yet, as he rode, a softer influence pos- 
sessed him, and his pace grew slower. He stared with 
a dreamy pleasure, which was strange to him, at the 
sheep scattered on the warm grassy slope, and the fold 
awaiting them. The intense stillness charmed him. Be- 
fore he reached home the cattle in the valley below 
were knee-deep in mist, and overhead the yellow moon 
shone in a pale violet sky. 


CHAPTER XLl. 


Autumn and winter passed at Glaring without re- 
markable events. Dick was glad of the quiet life ; and 
very glad of the companionship of his mother, who 
every day seemed more at ease with him. He left the 
politicians of Redgate to their own unassisted discus- 
sions, and betook himself with fresh interest to the 
study of “ Statesmen’s Year Books,” and of political 
pamphlets. He read all the reports, which he could get 
hold of, about emigration ; and these gradually turned 
his mind from his plan of planting a little colony in 
Palestine to wider schemes in the far West. The West 
began to have a peculiar attraction for him. He tried 
to realize the vast extent of corn-lands and of pastures. 
He decided that he should have to see these things 
before long ; that he must judge for himself the future 
of wheat in Dakota and Minnesota and the Canadian 
IManitoba, and the prospects of cattle-breeding in Wyo- 
ming and Montana. The idea of so much land excited 
him. He had a vision of turning good British farmers 
and laborers into land-owners, and so strengthening tho 
bonds of union between the two great kindred peoples 
of England and America. He was eager to own a bit 
of new virgin land on that side of the great sea. He 
often thought that he would like to have a talk with 
Mr. Ilolcroft about it. After all Syria was less interest- 
ing than America, as the future is more stimulating 
than the past. Occupied with such thouglits, busy out 


dick’s wandering. 


305 

of doors with his gun or his horses, and indoors with his 
books and reports, Dick found that the time passed 
quickly enough. He refused several tempting invita- 
tions, for somehow he did not care to go just then to 
country-houses, wliere there would certainly be girls. 
He flattered himself that more serious matters demanded 
his attention. He would have thought himself bound 
to go to any house, where he would meet the Toring- 
tons ; for he had made up his mind to give his cousin 
Betty a scolding and to point out to her what she ought 
to do. But the Toringtons had left England rather 
suddenly to join the Baeborough’s yacht in the Mediter- 
ranean ; and so Mr. Hartland was obliged to content 
himself with the prospect of putting things to rights in 
that quarter, when the young couple had come back for 
the season. 

And so the winter passed away in peace, and suddenly 
the world awoke and it was spring. It seemed as if all 
the birds had begun to talk at once. Half-awake, Dick 
lay one morning listening to this babble of the dawn, 
and presently amid the myriad voices he heard the cry 
of the cuckoo ; it seemed as if spring had found a voice. 
Dick jumped out of bed, and opened his window wide ; 
a soft westerly air filled the room ; the wind had 
changed in the night. 

After breakfast he found it impossible to read. He 
went out through the window of his study, and found his 
mother on the terrace. He took the big basket from 
her ; and he kept in his the little hand, which was al- 
most lost in the great garden-glove. ‘‘ Mother,’’ asked 
Dick, as they walked slowly in the sunlight, ‘‘ how does 
a man know when he is in love ? ” The unexpected 
question made her tremble a little. She gave a little 


806 


dick’s wandering. 


tremulous laugh, before she said, “ That shows you 
never have been in love. You will know it, when you 
are.” 

Sophy Hartland’ spoke honestly. She had forgotten 
long ago her own doubts and hesitations. It would have 
seemed to her impossible that she had ever doubted of 
her love for that paragon of men, who had asked her to 
be his wife : the bare idea would have seemed to her un- 
pardonably disloyal. So do honest folk, when they 
look back on the love-affairs of their youth, substitute 
for their own experiences the straight-forward literary 
romances of that time. The elderly gentleman thinks 
that he fell in love (and the phrase has all the antique 
suddenness about it) at the first moment when his eyes 
fell on Isabella at the Assembly ; and Isabella, whose 
drooping curls have long since vanished, believes that as 
her eyes fell beneath his ardent gaze, Cupid’s dart was 
fixed in her heart forever. They have forgotten the 
anxious hesitations, the rapidly changing temperature ; 
they remember love as drawn by the romancers of our 
fathers’ springtime. 

“ I think I must be different from other men,” said 
Dick, standing still and looking down upon her seri- 
ously. It is a speech which has been made by many 
thousand young men, and made seriously by most of 
them. Sophie Hartland gave no answer but a sigh. 
Then she smiled again, and asked for her basket. 

“ No,” said Dick with the air of authority, which on 
this morning she noticed without a shadow of her old 
resentment ; “ no ! you shall sit in state like a lady ; 
and I ’ll do just what you tell me.” 

“ I want that basket filled to the brim with [)rim- 
roses.” 


dick’s wandering. 


307 


‘‘ It shall be filled to overflowing,” said Dick. 

They had crossed the great avenue, and had passed 
the high wall of the kitchen-garden and through the lit- 
tle gate into the orchard. The old gnarled trees were 
still bare, but all the rough ground beneath them was 
rich with primroses. Nestling near the hedge, which 
bounded the further side, were many violets ; there were 
patches of delicate wind-flowers ; but to their eyes, as 
they entered this unkempt garden of the spring, there 
seemed room for nothing but primroses. Dick’s task 
was easy. His mother sat idle on the old bench, and 
watched him with softened eyes, as he knelt here and 
there gathering the flowers carefully. Now and then 
she pleased herself by giving him directions, pointing to 
richer tufts, warning him to gather leaves enough. And 
he pleased himself by obeying all her orders faithfully. 
All his attention was given to his work ; he seemed to 
have forgotten love ; at least he said no more about it. 
And she would say nothing about it. She felt sure that 
his words had meant nothing ; that this thought of love 
was but a sign of healthy life in young creatures at 
springtide. Was it not natural ? Suddenly the whole 
earth was ruflled and tufted with primroses, and dotted 
with buttercups and daisies ; the little copses were gay 
with anemones and half-hidden violets ; celandine peeped 
from the steep side of the ditch ; the slight hollow in the 
open field was beautiful with slender daffodils. Spring 
had lingered long, and seemed the richer for her long 
delay. All the ivy and the shrubberies were filled with 
the babble of the birds ; the first swallows were coming ; 
the nightingale, who comes before his mate, had been 
heard in the quiet night. The young lambs stumbled 
with their big knees in the deep, green grass ; the young 


308 


DICK'S WANDERING. 


wheat peeped from the brown field ; and above it the 
lark rose, leap after leap, singing to heaven, where the 
soft blue was flecked and swept bj fleecy clouds. Was 
it not natural then that a young man, whose feelings had 
been neither deadened nor frittered away, should be 
moved to tender thoughts ? Sophie Hartland assured 
herself that it was natural and right, and that she would 
not have it otherwise. As she sat in the soft, pure air 
and watched her boy, she was sure for that hour at least 
that no harm would come to this shining young creature. 
Perhaps she looked too long or too steadily ; after a lit- 
tle time she saw him through a mist of happy tears. 

To Dick Hartland no spring in his past life had said 
so much. Brought up in the country, and gifted with 
quick eyes and unflagging curiosity, he had begun early 
in life to notice little things : where bird’s nests were 
likely to be found, and whether the hatch-out of young 
thrushes was abundant; when the first young squirrel 
was seen, and the first swallow ; when the new green- 
points were found on the elm twigs, and when the wil- 
low wands, which curved up from the half-hidden pool, 
were adorned with soft golden buds. He had liked to 
notice such things ; and he had been ready to admit 
that some of them were pretty. Now, however, they 
touched him nearer. Though the wild flowers in Pal- 
estine had seemed more various and abundant, neither 
these nor any flowers since his birth had touched him so 
nearly. It struck him more than once that he had been 
torpid for some months ; it struck him as comical ; he 
seemed to have been awakened with the awakened world. 
Now the fact is, that that which seemed to Dick torpid- 
ity would have seemed to most people a high level of 
animal life and spirits. It had never been his habit to 


DICK'S WANDERING. 


309 


ask from what quarter the wind was blowing, except as 
it affected the scent on a hunting morning. Now, how- 
ever, he recognized the soft western air with a peculiar 
pleasure ; he lay open, as it were, to its sweet influ- 
ence. Suspicions were swept out of his heart. lie could 
scarcely have a hard thought of anybody. The year was 
long before him with a thousand pleasant chances. There 
was plenty of time. He was confident that good things 
were in store for him. So from the influence of early 
violets he passed to the thought of the people. There 
were so many friends whom he was eager to see again. 
His mother was going to London soon ; and he made up 
his mind to go with her. He told himself that he ought 
to look after Ossie ; he feared that he had been hard on 
Ossie, and had expected too much of him. He was still 
more certain that he must look after Ossie’s sister. He 
felt sure that he would set the Torington household to 
rights. These little things he would effect, before he 
embarked on wider schemes. Meanwhile he would see 
politicians, and pleasant friends, and lovely women. He 
had been alone too long. He went about the old house 
whistling ; and he would jump a gate or a paling to rid 
himself of some superfluous energy. 


CHAPTER XLII. 


Even the arrival of young Mr. Hartland of Glaring 
did not make a great sensation in the London world. 
Since he had been absent during an entire season, many 
people had forgotten him, and many more had forgotten 
whether they knew him or not. However, Dick did 
not trouble himself about such things. He shook hands 
warmly with people, whom he knew or thought he 
knew. He was inclined to shake hands with all the 
world, — to shake them by both hands. He smiled on 
his acquaintance, expecting smiles in return ; and so he 
generally received them. Since he liked everybody, or 
at least disliked nobody, few people disliked him. He 
made himself pleasant to men and women, and he had 
no shy fear that they would make themselves unpleas- 
ant to him. Such a possibility never crossed his mind. 
Indeed, he very rarely thought of others’ opinion of him ; 
he took it for granted that they saw that he was a good 
sort of fellow ; and so he turned incontinently to the 
consideration of matters more worthy of his attention. 
But perhaps the chief cause of his popularity was a 
certain air of innocence, which, combined with practical 
sagacity, has a charm for a weary world. It was a pe- 
culiar flavor not too common in the youth of the day ; 
Dick w^as like the first strawberry ; he was refreshing to 
the jaded palate. Even those young men, who seemed 
to be ashamed of nothing but a want of knowingness, 
were not insensible to the charm of this freshness ; they 


dick’s wandering. 


311 


did not examine the cause of their liking ; they cursed 
and said that Dick was a good sort. When Lord Stan- 
mere, with an imperfect appreciation of his simplicity, 
proposed to sell him a horse, and Dick, never doubting 
that he was enlightening the owner, felt it his duty to 
point out the animal’s defects, the little Lord felt a glow 
of warm affection. To have a friend with such an eye 
and such a heart was better than the selling of a hun- 
dred screws. With the women, too, this prosperous 
young man was a favorite. His admiration was so open 
and so guileless, his good spirits affected them; there 
was so much of the boy left in him, and enough of man- 
liness also. The sensitive natures of ladies, who were 
sighing over the past, caught youth from Dick. And 
he, on his side, liked the other sex much better than 
he had liked them two years ago. He expected much 
less from them. He was heard to say more than once 
that one must forgive vanity in women ; that they 
flirted as birds plumed themselves ; that it was a very 
pretty game to watch. He laughed at danger ; he was 
not afraid to look lovely ladies in the face ; and his 
looks were never offensive. It was worthy of notice 
that he talked more often with married women than 
with girls. With girls he was at this time a little shy. 
Dick went everywhere, and enjoyed himself ; and if 
Mr. Kirby and some greater political personages shook 
their heads over so strange a training for political life, 
the world at large, who had a wholesome faith that there 
would always be a sufficient crop of politicians, cared 
not a jot whether the pleasant young man did anything 
but smile and talk and dance and eat their dinners. 

In all the whirl and bustle and amusement of this 
London life there was one task whick Dick kept stead- 
14 


312 


dick’s wandering. 


ily before him. He was always trying to keep a watch- 
ful eye on his cousins Ossie and Betty. Now Ossie was 
very successful in eluding the watchful eye. He was ill 
at ease with his cousin. He found it harder to forget 
one afternoon in the forest of Belgrade than any other 
day or hour of his life ; generally he had no difficulty in 
forgetting disagreeable things. The sight of Dick al- 
ways reminded him of something which destroyed his 
comfort for the moment ; and so he judiciously avoided 
Dick. When he could not avoid him, he was very cor- 
dial ; he talked much more than in their former collo- 
quies, and a good deal louder ; then he would suddenly 
remember an engagement, and take a hurried leave. 

As for Mrs. Torington, her cousin found it easy 
enough to keep an eye on her. Indeed, it was difficult 
to go anywhere — anywhere, that is, in the regions rec- 
ognized by fashionable people — without seeing her. 
She went everywhere ; and yet everywhere she pre- 
served her delightful air of repose. She never seemed 
to be coming or going ; she was always there, smiling 
lazily, ready for homage, radiantly beautiful. But, 
though Dick found it easy to keep an eye on her, the 
occupation gave him little pleasure. Wherever she was, 
Harold Dolamore was beside her. Other men came and 
went with smiles more or less fatuous, and speeches 
more or less idiotic ; but Dolamore seemed never weary 
of attendance. Dick had never outgrown his distrust 
of this polite man with the sleek black head ; and his 
distrust was now increasing daily. He suspected that 
even this devotion, which was so unceasingly though 
quietly displayed, was not more than half genuine ; that 
one great cause of his assiduous attentions was pleasure 
in being talked about with the beauty, who for the time 


dick’s wandering. 


313 


it least was more admired than any other woman in 
London. For Betty since her marriage had vastly in- 
creased the circle of her admirers, and the depth of their 
admiration. They were of all ages and complexions ; 
and, though the smiles of the cleverest were perhaps the 
most fatuous and their speeches not the least idiotic, 
there were distinguished men among them. Betty was 
an admirable listener; and when slie was too lazy to 
make the effort to understand a statesman, an author, or 
a wit, she murmured so sweet an interest or smiled so 
expressively, that the wit, the author, and the statesman 
were equally certain of her rare intelligence. Men were 
heard to declare that they liked to talk to Mrs. Toring- 
ton, not because she was pretty, but because she was 
clever. These men did most of the talking. The lady 
on her side liked to be talked to by clever men, to be 
played to by skilled musicians, to have pretty things 
brought for her to see, to be amused and interested. 
Harold Dolamore spent a good deal of time and thought 
in considering what would be likely to amuse or inter- 
est. 

One afternoon, when the season was at its height, 
Dick presented himself and the white flower in his but- 
ton-hole at Mrs. Spiller’s concert. This lady was neither 
young, handsome, nor agreeable ; and yet everybody 
went to her house who could obtain admission. Though 
very far from clever, she had been clever enough to put 
herself in the hands of the dining wag, who had a talent 
for discovering the vague wishes of society. Under the 
guidance of her young friend, Mrs. Spiller had given a 
series of very small parties, and on each occasion had 
provided an expensive novelty. Each new one had been 
more successful than the last. The Slavonic band had 


314 


dick’s wandering. 


been eclipsed by the songstress of the Champs Elysees ; 
the songstress, who had been judiciously toned down 
for the drawing-room, was forgotten in the excitement 
caused by the Count with the second sight ; and though 
nothing was said of the disappearance of some of the 
lighter specimens of silver after his wonderful exhibi- 
tion, the gifted nobleman himself had been obliged to 
yield to the actress who had driven an express train, es- 
caped from a tedious engagement in a balloon, and was 
reported to have killed her first husband in a duel. 
That Madame Manetti should consent to sing in a draw- 
ing-room, which had been made famous by this series of 
exhibitions, surprised many of her friends ; but this 
charming singer prided herself on strict adherence to 
certain rules, and one of her rules was that for a certain 
sum she would sing in any respectable private house. 
She had fixed what she supposed to be a prohibitory 
price, for she did not like singing in the drawing-rooms 
of strangers ; but Mrs. Spiller had not been deterred, 
and Madame Manetti had consented at once to sing. 
Mrs. Spider’s husband would pay anything on condition 
that he was not obliged to be present. He w^as under- 
stood to be making a gigantic fortune somewhere in the 
city. For the rest, his guests cared neither where he 
was, nor who he was. Only Lord Raeborough, who re- 
membered few things and almost all of those disagreea- 
ble, pretended to recognize in their host a certain Spiil- 
ler, sometime valet to his wild uncle, and part owner of 
a German sausage shop in Soho. 

Whatever may have been the origin and first calling 
of Mr. Spiller, his large and florid wife exhibited a noble 
air as she welcomed to her concert the very cream of 
London society. So distinguished, indeed, were her 


dick’s wandering. 


315 


guests, that they were scarcely numerous enough to fill 
the chairs provided for them. When they were all 
seated, and a hum of talk filled the large room, which 
was pleasantly shaded, anxiety took possession of the 
glowing lady of the house, for Madame Mauetti had 
not arrived. At last there was the sound of another 
brougham at the door, then a movement on the stairs, 
and two ladies, very quietly dressed, came in quickly 
and went straight to the piano. Mrs. Spiller hovered 
heavily about them ; but the singer, after a few words, 
turned from her to the little man who was to play her 
accompaniments. The friend whom she had brought 
with her slipped into the recess of the window ; and 
Madame Manetti turned to the room her delicate fine 
face, and the grave mysterious eyes, which had thrilled 
so many men and women in opera house and concert 
room. She was the musical favorite of the hour ; and 
her devotion to her art made her more than worthy of 
all her honors. 

Before the arrival of the great singer Dick had found 
no better occupation than staring at the back of Betty 
Torington’s head, and observing once more how often 
Dolamore bent down to whisper in her ear. Harold 
Dolamore had taken no small trouble to get himself in- 
vited to this exclusive party ; he was very glad to dis- 
play his devotion in an atmosphere so full of inspiration. 
Dick was angry with this acquaintance of his boyhood ; 
a little angry with Betty ; inclined to quarrel with John 
Torington for not going out more with his wife ; and not 
quite pleased with himself for having been some weeks 
in London, without having put a stop to this foolish 
business. He made up his mind to speak to Betty seri- 
ously at the first opportunity. When Madame Manetti 


316 


dick’s wakdering. 


entered, his thoughts took a new direction. lie had 
never before seen her in a room, and he looked at her 
with curiosity. He began to wonder what the life of a 
great singer was like, and what she thought of her fash- 
ionable audience, who received her with a low murmur 
of welcome. Then he wondered who the friend was, 
who had come in so quietly and screened herself from 
observation behind the window-curtain ; whether she 
was young or old ; if she always went about with the 
Manetti ; what she thought of her, and of the audience, 
and of life in general. 

From such idle speculations Dick was aroused by the 
first note of the singer’s voice. lie was not very musi- 
cal ; but on this afternoon this voice moved him more 
than any music had moved him in his life before. She 
sang beautifully, controlling her voice to suit the limits 
of the room. Dick could not appreciate her exquisite 
art ; and yet under its influence he almost forgot where 
he was. Leaning in the doorway he closed his eyes, 
and without meaning to remember remembered places 
far away — a fig-tree luxuriant over a well — a cool 
court-yard set round with pomegranates — a deck by 
night, and moonlight on a summer sea. He almost held 
his breath to listen. When the other artists played or 
sang, he was restless and inattentive ; but all the time 
he was beset by memories. He moved and looked about 
him, but he could not shake off the spell. He was star- 
ing open-mouthed at the Manetti, as she began to sing 
her last song. As she finished, people drew breath, and 
there was a murmur of real gratitude under the light 
clapping of hands. She bowed and turned away, and at 
the same moment her friend emerged from the window- 
curtains. Dick was still staring at the singer, when her 


dick’s wandering. 


317 


friend came before his eyes. He still stared with eyes 
wide open, and felt his cheek grow hot, as he saw Miss 
Holcroft before him. 

Miss Holcroft glanced for a moment down the room 
to the doorway, where Dick was standing, and then 
turned quickly to follow Madame Manetti from the 
room. In that moment she had decided that Mr. Hart- 
land hesitated to recognize her, because she was present 
in that fashionable assembly, not as an invited guest, but 
as the companion of a singer. She had taught herself 
to expect such treatment from English acquaintance, and 
had armed herself to meet it with indifference. Though 
she had been some weeks in England and had found a 
good deal of kindness, she was still to some extent on 
the defensive ; and she was ready to be more strictly on 
the defensive against Dick, than against all the world 
beside. In this young Englishman she had from the 
first suspected an excess of self-respect. She had been 
bent on seeing in him the arrogance of the whole class 
of British landowners, and on detective patronage in his 
politeness to Americans. She would not submit to pa- 
tronage from anybody — least of all from young men — 
least of all young men from Dick. She felt a slight re- 
sentment against this young man. 

So soon as Dick had recovered from his momentary 
stupefaction, he began to push his way to the further 
end of the room. He kept his eyes fixed on Miss Hol- 
croft, but she would not look at him again. Everybody 
was now in motion, and he was obliged to advance 
slowly and with frequent apologies ; he hardly knew 
what he said. As he drew near to the place, where the 
Manetti was still detained by a circle of congratulating 
ladies, he saw to his astonishment his cousin Betty take 


318 


dick’s wandering. 


Miss Ilolcroft by both hands and begin to talk with an 
animation most unusual. By this time he was near 
enough to hear what she said. 

‘‘ My dear Kitty,” Mrs. Torington was saying, “ you 
must come to us on Sunday ; my father has lent us his 
little place on the river ; we go there from Saturday till 
Monday ; and you must come ; and you must let me take 
you to the Raeboroughs’ on Tuesday, and — I wish you 
would let me take you everywhere.” To this ardent ap- 
peal Kitty Holcroft only replied by smiling and shaking 
her head. “ You know you ought to go out,” said Betty 
severely; “and I do so want to be a chaperon.” At 
this Kitty laughed. 

“ How d’ ye do ? ” said Dick at her elbow. Miss Ilol- 
croft stopped laughing, as she gave him her hand, but at 
once began talking to Mrs. Torington. He speaks to 
me now, she thought, because he sees that his cousin 
knows me. She was saying something to Betty with 
her gayest manner ; and now the Manetti made a sign to 
her, and she hurried away without a word or look for 
the young man, who stood staring stupidly. 

“ What are you dreaming about ? ” asked Betty softly 
in his ear ; and Dolamore came to her side with his po- 
lite smile, and offered his arm, as if it were a matter of 
course that he should lead her to her carriage. 


CHAPTER XLIIL 


It was not long before it occurred to Dick that lie 
had not asked Miss Holcroft about her father ; nor 
where she was staying ; nor how long she would be in 
London, She had been whirled away in Madame Ma- 
netti’s brougham ; Betty had gone on Dolamore’s arm 
in search of her carriage ; and the energetic Mr. Hart- 
land had remained standing without speech or move- 
ment, uncertain, uneasy, even a little confused. One 
thing was certain ; he must lose no time in finding the 
Holcrof ts ; the merest politeness required so much atten- 
tion. He felt that he owed it to himself to do all he 
could to render their stay in London agreeable. He was 
glad that Betty was attentive. He wondered how and 
where these two young ladies had become so intimate. 
He wondered if Miss Holcroft had been really very cold 
to him, or if he had imagined her coldness. Pie won- 
dered why she should snub him. He was certainly less 
positive than usual ; he kept on asking himself the same 
questions, and finding no final answers. 

After luncheon on the next day Dick went to Mrs. 
Toringtoii’s house and was lucky enough to find her at 
home. Now it happened that Betty was not thinking 
of her American friend, and when she heard her cousin 
announced, she decided that he had come to talk about 
herself. She was glad that she was to be talked to ; 
and she liked to be talked to about herself. She had 
been alone, and a little bored. So she gave him her 


820 


dick’s wandering. 


sweetest smile, as she allowed him to shake her hand ; 
and her sleepy eyes wandered round her boudoir with a 
comfortable look, as she leaned back again on the cush- 
ions of her sofa. The rosy light, the drowsy atmos- 
phere, the soft colors, seemed to find their natural centre 
in this beautiful creature. She was ready to listen ; 
but she presently raised her drooping eyelids a little 
and looked at her cousin with mild surprise, for he on 
his side seemed to be in no hurry to say anything at all. 
He felt an unprecedented shyness ; he thought that it 
would be awkwardly abrupt to begin questions about 
Miss Ilolcroft. So he presently made some remarks on 
trivial subjects, which only caused Mrs. Torington to 
yawn ; and after all, the questions, which he had come 
to ask, sounded no less abrupt when at last they were 
uttered. Betty was not very communicative. She 
thought that the Holcrofts would stay some time longer 
in London ; she named their hotel ; she thought that 
Kitty was awfully nice, — so clever and so pretty, and 
so, amusing. She had met her at Mrs. Kerisen’s. Did n’t 
he know that the Manetti’s real name was Marion Keri- 
sen ? Mrs. Kerisen had a delightful husband, who wrote 
clever things about everything and looked after his wife’s 
money matters, — and a delightful father, who had done 
everything and been everywhere, and was an old friend 
of Mr. Ilolcroft. 

‘‘ Did Miss Ilolcroft tell you that we were friends ? ” 
asked Dick. 

“ I think she said she had seen you,” said Betty 
lazily ; “ I know she said something about you. Why 
don’t you go and call on her now ? You may as well be 
sivil.” She spoke rather pettishly, as if she had been 
disappointed of a promised treat. “ I hoped you had 
come to scold me,” she added plaintively after a pause. 


dick’s wandering. 


321 


Dick began to laugh, but he stopped rather suddenly. 
He remembered that it was only yesterday that he made 
up his mind to scold his charming cousin ; that some- 
how since that the whole purpose had vanished from 
his mind ; that he had been on the point of going away 
without saying a word about her foolish conduct. 

However, since Betty herself had introduced the sub- 
ject, Dick felt that there was no time like the present. 
He had made up his mind to say certain things to his 
cousin. This he regarded as a duty. The pleasure of 
renewing his acquaintance with the Holcrofts he could 
postpone easily enough. He assured himself with a mo- 
ment’s pride that of course he could postpone seeing 
Miss Holcroft without a pang, — at least without any 
feeling deserving so tragic a name. He turned to Betty 
with an air of gravity, and leaned a little forward in his 
chair as he spoke. ‘‘ I will scold you,” he said, “ if I 
may scold you seriously.” 

The lady began to smile again as she leaned back 
among her cushions. I sha’n’t take it seriously,” she 
said softly. 

My dear Betty, that ’s where you are wrong,” said 
Dick, who was now fairly launched on the subject ; 
‘‘ some things are serious, and you have no right to take 
them lightly. Marriage is serious ; whether your hus- 
band is happy or not is a serious question. You ought 
to think of Tory.” 

‘‘ Think of Jack ! I do think of Jack. I think he ’a 
very stupid.” 

“ Betty ! ” 

“ But he is,” said Mrs. Torington, smiling with a 
sense of comfort ; he is stupid. He hardly says any 
Vhing.” 


822 


dick’s wandering. 


Perhaps lie ’s afraid of saying too much. lie natu- 
rally does n’t wish to say hard things to his wife.” 

“ Why should he say hard things to me ? ” she asked 
with a childlike manner. Do you mean that he 
does n’t trust me ? ” As Dick did not answer, but only 
regarded her with a meditative frown, she added with 
dignity, “ A husband should have perfect confidence in 
his wife.” 

“ That depends on the wife,” said Dick quickly. The 
lady’s dignity was short-lived ; she began to smile again. 
This conversation about herself was a luxury which she 
enjoyed thoroughly, though placidly. Since she smiled 
and said nothing, her cousin began again. ‘‘ You can’t 
expect him to like to hear you talked about.” 

“ Yes, I can,” she said. 

“ You can ! What do you mean ? ” 

‘‘ He ought to like people to say pretty things about 
me.” 

“ And suppose they say ugly things ? ” said Dick 
shortly ; “is he expected to like that ? ” 

“ Oh, one must be talked about,” said Betty comfort- 
ably. “ Everybody ’s talked about.” 

“ Not everybody.” 

“ Well,” said Betty dreamily, “ Jack ’s horrid, any- 
way.” 

Dick looked at his cousin with some perplexity. He 
felt that he was not making much way ; that somehow 
she rather enjoyed the interview, but was deriving little 
profit from it. Perhaps he enjoyed it a little himself. 
He had always found a peculiar pleasure in lecturing his 
charming cousin. He thought that he would startle her 
from her comfortable indifference. There had been si- 
lence for some minutes when he asked abruptly, “ Do 
you mean that you don’t love your husband ? ” 


dick’s wandering. 323 

Of course I love him,” she answered easily ; ‘‘ but 
he IS horrid.” 

There came into Dick’s head a saying of his uncle 
Hervie Langdon about the uselessness of arguing with 
women. He remembered that at the time he had 
merely noticed it in passing as an instance of the non- 
sense which men talk about women. Now he too was 
beginning to think that women were unlike men, even 
to think sometimes that they were hard to understand. 
If he did not understand Betty, whom he had known 
from infancy, how far must he be from the comprehen- 
sion of other ladies. He began to think of John Tor- 
ington, and to wonder how far he understood his wife. 
Fearful elements of tragedy seemed to lie in the pos- 
sibility of such a question. From Tory his thoughts 
travelled to Harold Dolamore. What a contrast in 
men’s eyes ! Was it possible that women who had been 
brought up among gentlemen could doubt which of these 
two was the better, the more honorable, the more agree- 
able ? He had always supposed that women were much 
influenced by looks ; and surely as to the appearance of 
these men there could be no comparison. He pictured 
to himself Torington’s tall slender figure and upright 
carriage, his fine features and dark, well-shaped head ; 
and he mentally contrasted them with Dolamore’s sleek 
black hair, sallow face, and elaborately reposeful man- 
ner. “ And Dolamore ! ” he said abruptly. “ You must 
feel that the fellow is what Ossie calls ‘A second- 
rater.’ ” 

Mrs. Torington regarded her cousin with unruffled 
equanimity. “ He ’s Ossie’s greatest friend,” she said 
quietly. 

Everybody ’s Ossie’s greatest friend,” said Dick ; 
“ that ’s nothing.” 


324 


dick’s wandering. 


‘‘ And I don’t know what you mean by ‘ a second- 
rater,’ ” continued the lady calmly ; “ but Harold Dol- 
amore comes of a very good old family.” 

‘‘ I don’t care if he ’s a duke in disguise ; that ’s noth- 
ing to do with it ; you ought to know by instinct that 
he ’s a man not to trust too far.” He spoke warmly, 
and Betty seemed to look to him for an explanation. 
“ I mean,” he continued, ‘‘ that he has n’t got an over- 
nice sense of honor — that he ’s not quite the thing — 
it ’s hard to explain.” 

“ So it seems,” said she sweetly. 

Dick looked at his cousin rather helplessly. 

‘‘ If you mean,” she continued gravely, “ that his fa- 
ther was unfortunate ; and that Mr. Dolamore is not 
well off ; and that therefore ” — 

“ Of course I mean nothing of the sort,” interrupted 
Dick. 

She only smiled at his abruptness. “ Perhaps you 
mean that he is not a gentleman ? ” she asked. 

“ Not in the best sense,” he answered sturdily. 

‘‘ My dear Dick,” Betty said gravely but kindly after 
a pause, “ if you came here to abuse my friends ” — 
and she left the sentence unfinished, as she rearranged 
herself among her cushions. 

“ I ’m going,” said Dick, getting up from his chair. 

In a moment she looked up at him, smiling with re- 
newed good humor. “ After all,” she said, ‘‘ it ’s your 
fault that I married.” 

“My fault!” 

“ Did n’t you make me marry Jack ? ” 

Dick looked down on her, and felt the hopelessness 
of the situation. He remembered, as well as if he had 
3poken yesterday, that he had warned her against mar- 


dick’s WANDEPwING. 


325 


Tying John Toririgton unless she was sure that she cared 
enough for him ; but, as he looked down into her hon- 
est eyes, he was sure that she believed that he had 
urged her to her marriage. He began to wonder if all 
women had an extraordinary gift of self-deception. He 
knew that to argue on this subject would be a mere 
waste of words. For a minute his passion for fact al- 
most made him speak ; but he resisted the impulse and 
shru^sred his shoulders. 

“ You might have saved me from this marriage,’’ she 
said presently. 

I save you ! What do you mean ? Betty, you 
must n’t talk like that — as if your marriage was a 
mistake. You ’ve the best husband in the world.” 

Oh, yes,” she said. 

What more do you want ? ” 

Lots of things,” she answered, smiling. 

For a time he continued to look down at her, silent, 
with a slight frown. He could not understand what 
she had meant when she said that she had looked to 
him to save her from her marriage. Probably she had 
meant nothing. He was beginning to think that half 
the words of women meant nothing. Perhaps they 
made a mystery about themselves with strange speeches, 
as the hunted cuttle-fish darkens the water around him 
with an ink-like fluid. Wonderful are the ways of women, 
and of cuttle-fish ! 

Well,” he said at last, “ I must be going ; good 
by!” 

She held out her hand to him with a most amiable 
smile. ‘‘ And you ain’t angry ? ” she asked. And you 
will come down to us on Sunday ? You know that 
papa is still pottering over his old marbles in Florence. 


326 


dick’s wandering. 


But he has lent us his house for the summer. I wish it 
was larger, for then we could put you up ; but the Hol- 
crofts are going down with us from Saturday to Mon- 
day — and the Ilurte Parkinsons — and — I forget who 
— but I know we ’re full this week. But you must 
come down on Sunday. There are lots of trains.” 

“ I ’ll try,” said Dick. “ Yes ; I think I can prom- 
ise.” 

“ And you won’t abuse my friends, will you ? It ’s 
wicked to abuse people ; and besides abuse does n’t 
amuse me in the least.” 

‘‘ You ’re too good-natured,” said Dick ; “ good-by.” 

As Mr. Hartland ran down stairs, he looked at his 
watch, and, when he was on the pavement, he started at 
his best pace for the hotel where the Ilolcrofts were 
staying. lie felt an unusual excitement ; he was sure 
that there was no time like the present for getting this 
visit over. During his talk with his cousin this thought 
had recurred to him several times; and now he had 
started without hesitation. Yet as he walked, doubts 
occurred to him. He wondered if he were not showing 
too great eagerness to renew this acquaintance. Pride 
began to whisper that, when on the day before he had 
made his way to this girl as to an old friend, she had 
barely recognized him. There could be no doubt that 
she had snubbed him. Perhaps her manner had been 
assumed, and was a mere weapon of coquetry. If so, 
was he wise in showing himself so fit a subject for 
capricious experiments ? Would it not be wiser to wait 
antil she had asked him to come and see her ? She 
would have a chance of asking him on Sunday. A 
day’s delay could do no harm. It seemed to him so clear 
that he had better wait, that he wondered how he could 


dick’s wandering. 


327 


have started to pay this visit ; already it seemed that rJl 
possible arguments were in favor of a prudent delay. 
He stood still again, and looked at his watch; he 
thought that it was too late for a formal visit ; after such 
a meeting as that of yesterday his visit must of couroe 
be rigidly formal. He put his watch in his pocket, and 
turned with a defiant swing down a side street, which 
led to his mother’s house. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 


The next morning Dick was possessed by a strong 
and most unpleasant belief that he had behaved badly. 
It seemed to him certain that he ought to have called on 
the Holcrofts on the previous day. Nothing had hap- 
pened, since he had convinced himself by a string of ad- 
mirable arguments that he would be very foolish to 
make that visit. Nothing had happened which could in 
the remotest degree alFect his conclusion ; and yet all the 
arguments now seemed to be on the other side. lie had 
been wanting in courtesy to strangers, where he was at 
home. It might look as if he were ready to rush into a 
friendship abroad, and to slip out of it in London. He 
wondered if she would think him capable of this. After 
all he might have imagined the coldness of her manner. 
If she had been wanting in friendliness, he was ready 
to admit that it might have been due to a proper pride, 
to a wish to see clearly on what footing he desired that 
they should be. If there were any coldness between 
them, it was all the more essential that he should fail in 
no act of courtesy. Instead of blaming her for coque- 
try, he blamed himself for rudeness. What must she 
think of him ? What would her father think ? He at 
least had never shown any caprice. Dick wondered 
how he could have failed for a moment to see that he 
would have done the right thing by calling on the Hol- 
crofts without delay. There were not two sides to the 
question 


dick’s wandering. 


329 


Now as Mr. Hartland sat rather gloomy in his chair 
and stared at his boots, he perceived a strange fact. 
He perceived that, after due consideration of precisely 
similar circumstances, on two occasions separated only 
by a few hours, he had arrived at precisely opposite 
conclusions. Each conclusion had seemed to be sup- 
ported by unanswerable arguments ; but one must be 
wrong. Now this surprised Dick very much, because 
he did not often turn his attention to this sort of ques- 
tion. He was not given to the examination of his men- 
tal processes. If anybody had asked him formerly why 
he chose one of two courses, he would have said that of 
course he weighed the pros and cons of each, and de- 
cided accordingly. Heretofore he had found little diffi- 
culty in making up his mind what to do. Now the 
sudden discovery that the weighing of pros and cons 
had led him to diametrically opposite decisions struck 
him to a strange solemnity. He thought that something 
must be the matter with him. He got out of his chair, 
and walked about; but he could not escape from this 
perplexing fact. Gradually a faint flush stole into his 
cheek. It struck him that this peculiar result of weigh- 
ing arguments must be due to the fact that they related 
to a woman. He found comfort in the belief that he 
would still be able to trust his decisions about men. 
But these women ? How strange they were ! It seemed 
to be their mission to stultify the calculations of the 
reasonable sex. Yesterday he had found so many argu 
ments, and to-day so many ; but it seemed as if the feel- 
ing of the moment determined which arguments were to 
be used. He tried to decide what he meant by the feel- 
ing of the moment. He supposed that yesterday he 
must have been influenced by that mysterious feeling 


330 


dick’s wandering. 


called pique. And to-day? What was it which de- 
termined the direction of his arguments to-day ? It 
seemed a regretful tenderness. Was it possible that 
these changes, these moods of heat and cold, were that, 
which he had read of, all incredulous. Was this love ? 
It was a very serious question. Unluckily he could not 
answer it. 

Hervie Langdon would have smiled to see how his 
daughter had changed his charming little house beside 
the river. It must be confessed that on the Sunday 
afternoon when Dick Hartland visited it, it had a rakish 
air. All the high windows stood open to the wide 
verandah. In the dining-room luncheon had not been 
cleared away, for more visitors might yet arrive. From 
the drawing-room the most comfortable chairs had been 
brought out on to the lawn. On the lawn too a Persian 
carpet was outspread, and lesser rugs, and cushions ; 
and a great Japanese umbrella was planted like a tent 
in the smooth turf. On the lawn-tennis court, which 
was hidden from the river by thick shrubbery, a big 
basket of new balls had been upset, and a few racquets 
lay here and there. There were not many people ; and 
they knew each other so well, that a pleasant freedom 
prevailed. Susan Bond was managing a canoe with no 
little strength and skill, while Ossie threatened to throw 
pebbles at her. Mrs. Ilurte Parkinson reclined in a 
long wicker chair, holding a cigarette between her small 
teetli, and letting her eyes wander to Lord Stanmere, 
while slie listened, half-amused, to the occasional utter- 
ances of Mr. Holcroft, whom she found delightfully 
quaint and refreshing. Stanmere, clad in white flannel, 
sat cross-legged on a rug and sipped his black coffee; 
while Dolamore, reclining near him, lay at the feet of 


dick’s wandering. 


331 


Mrs. Torington. Betty had finished her coffee, which 
she liked, and her cigarette, which she thought she 
liked ; and she now sat idle, looking at the passing river 
with half-shut eyes, and smiling. She did not trouble 
herself much about her duties as a hostess ; she had an 
undisturbed belief in not making a fuss, — in letting 
things slide like the river. Things always go right,’’ 
she would say, “ if you don’t bother.” 

Into the midst of a party so idle and so completely at 
ease, Dick came in a mood of great solemnity. He had 
been reflecting seriously on his strange condition. He 
had arrived at the conclusion that it was useless for 
him, in his present state, to argue about his feelings for 
Miss Holcroft. The uselessness of arguments in this 
case had been clearly proved. Therefore he had made 
up his mind that he must launch himself, and be pre- 
pared for either fate. He had determined to go to 
Betty on Sunday, as she had asked him ; and he had 
told himself that there, at the first sound of Miss Hol- 
croft’s voice, or even at the first sight of her, he should 
know if he were that strange thing, — a man in love. 
It is no wonder that he stepped out on to the lawn in a 
mood of unusual solemnity. A moment was to decide 
his fate. He was awestruck. 

Dick stepped through the window, and looked round 
for the sudden illumination which was to reveal his 
future life. The next moment he had perceived that 
there was to be no sudden illumination at all. Miss 
Holcroft was strolling up and down the lawn with John 
Torington ; and when she saw Dick, she turned to greet 
him with a matter-of-course air, as if they had been 
seeing each other every day for weeks past. It seemed 
as if she had forgotten her displeasure at the concert. 


332 


dick’s wandering. 


Her gray eyes were bright with interest ; her delicate 
cheek was a little flushed ; her lips were smiling. She 
looked very pretty, and even Dick noticed how well and 
how neatly she was dressed. 

“ Oh, Mr. Hartland,” she said, I am so glad you have 
come ; I want you to tell me about this. Is this your 
English Sunday ? lam perfectly amazed.” 

“ Do you like it ? ” asked Dick, who was looking at 
her with perplexity. It seemed so natural to be talking 
to her in this light fashion, that he could hardly believe 
in his solemnity of the minute before. 

“ I am not sure,” she said, pursing her lips in a medi- 
tative manner : ‘‘ it reminds me of Newport ; but they 
don’t dare to go so far at Newport ; there one’s neigh- 
bors overlook one’s lawn.” 

“ But do you like it ? ” 

I don’t know. I am afraid that there is a little of 
the Puritan left in me, — that the scent of the May- 
flower clings round me still. But it is very interesting. 
And you have n’t answered my question. Mr. Toring- 
ton won’t tell me ; I believe he thinks that I am gather- 
ing materials for a book. Is this the common English 
Sunday ? ” 

‘‘ Not where one’s neighbor overlooks one’s lawn.” 

“ Ah ! ” she said, the English worship of appear- 
ances ! And the river ” 

“ This is a quiet reach,” said Dick, and we are half 
screened by the shrubbery.” 

Torington strolled away to the water’s edge ; and as 
Miss Ilolcroft began to walk up and down again, Dick 
could not help going with her. She said nothing, but 
he noticed that she never passed Betty without looking 
at her and the young man at her feet. When they had 


dick’s .wandering. 


OOO 

passed them two or three times, Miss Ilolcroft turned to 
her companion with raised eyebrows and a little laugh. 
“ Pie is very devoted,’’ she said. 

“ And do you like that too ? asked Dick rather 
sliarply. 

“ Don’t you ? ” she asked, still smiling. 

‘‘No.” 

She looked at the young man, as if she was amused 
by his abruptness. “ Oh, Mr. Hartland,” she said, shak- 
ing her head at him, “ I feel sure that you lecture your 
cousin.” 

“ Did Betty tell you so ? ” 

“ No. Instinct tells me. But you are right not to 
confess it. It would be giving yourself away. Is n’t 
a young man, who lectures ladies, terrible ? ” 

“ Do you think they never need it ? ” He laughed as 
he spoke ; but he was by no means pleased with their 
conversation. He was annoyed with her for noticing 
this foolish flirtation, and still more annoyed with her 
for speaking of it to him ; he told himself that she really 
was a frivolous girl, and he began to feel gloomy. 

“ You look as if you were going to lecture me,” she 
said. “Is it true that in England men really think 
themselves the superior sex? It’s very droll. But 
you must not find fault with your cousin, when you talk 
to me. She has been very kind to me, and lam very 
fond of her.” 

“ If you liked her,” said Dick rather grimly, “ you 
would n’t like this ; ” and he nodded to the place where 
Betty sat listening to Dolamore’s half-whispered words. 

“ Oh, I like flirtations,” said Miss Holcroft with her 
little mutinous air, — “ other people’s flirtations. Soci- 
ety would be insufferably dull without them ; they are 


334 dick’s wandering. 

comedies without the smell of the footlights ; I love 
comedies.” 

‘‘ And what if they turn into tragedies ? I did not 
know that young ladies in America were so advanced 
as to approve of married women’s flirtations.” He spoke 
with some bitterness. She looked at him quickly, with 
her delicate eyebrows arched and her lip pouted a little. 
He knew in an instant that his speech had offended her. 
Sbe said nothing, but she walked across the lawn to the 
side of Mrs. Torington’s chair ; she looked at Dolamore, 
who rose at her approach, and Betty received her with 
her sweetest smile. 

Dick stood alone and looked after the perplexing 
young lady who had just left him. He thought that he 
was fated to say the wrong thing to her ; fated to offend 
her ; fated never to understand her. Surely if she chose 
to talk lightly of a married friend’s flirtation, she had 
no right to resent his plain-speaking. Was her resent- 
ment assumed, a mere move in the game of flirtation ? 
When he thought of her cleverness and experience of 
fashionable life, he was almost compelled to answer 
Yes. And yet there was something so fresh and neat 
about her, so maidenly an air, that, as he looked, he 
could not but believe in the sweetness of her thoughts, 
and the candor of her face. 

Dick, standing alone and serious, felt presently a light 
touch on his arm, and turning found Miss Susan Bond. 
She too was looking in the direction of Betty Toring- 
ton and her attendant cavalier. 

“ Are you suffering from the pangs of remorse ? ” 
asked Miss Bond, in a low voice. 

“ What for ? ” asked Dick. 

You know,” she said ; “ you know very well that 
you ought to have married Betty.” 


dick’s wandering. 


335 


«What?” 

‘‘You ought to have married Betty; I never could 
understand why you did n’t. Did n’t you approve of 
cousins marrying ? ” 

“ My dear Miss Bond,” said Dick, who was now re- 
covering from his astonishment, “ there never was a 
thought of such a thing. I can’t think where you hit 
on such an idea.” 

Miss Susan Bond, confident in her worldly wisdom, 
shook her head. “You try to make me believe too 
much,” she said. “Do you mean to say that Betty 
never thought of it ? Oh, don’t be vain ! She ’s never 
been in love in her life. But she did think of it. She 
thought that you would save her from this other mar- 
riage.” She almost used Betty’s own words of the day 
before. Dick stared at her in amazement. 

“ No,” he said ; “ you must be wrong. I should have 
known — I should have guessed — I — No ; it ’s ab- 
surd. I used to be rather hard to her ; I used to scold 
her.” 

“ And don’t you know that when a young man scolds 
a young woman, it ’s flirtation ? ” 

“ No.” 

Miss Bond looked at Dick curiously. “ I really do 
believe you don’t,” she said, after her scrutiny ; “ how 
strange you are I ” 


15 


CHAPTER XLV. 


Though Miss Hoi croft had seemed to dismiss Mr. 
Hartland and his unlucky remark with a single look, 
yet his words haunted her. Whenever they came back 
to her, she was angry with him who had said them. 
What right had he to say such things to her ? What 
right had he to look with gravity on a harmless flirta- 
tion, — to speak and look as if his own cousin, who was 
so charming, could be in real danger ? “ It is so like a 

man,” the young girl said to herself. She was indig- 
nant with him for bringing near her thoughts which 
seemed to poison friendship, to dull the beauty of life, 
to taint the purity of the air. She told herself that it 
would be long before she could forgive this young man 
for speaking to her, as if she were capable of regarding 
the wickedness of the world with a smile and a shrug 
of the shoulders. 

It must be confessed that Miss Holcroft was hard on 
Dick. His offence was not very grave. If she had dis- 
covered that he believed in her ignorance of the fact 
that mischief and misery did sometimes spring from 
idle flirtation, she would have been angry with him for 
thinking her a fool. She thought that she had lived a 
very long time, and had seen a great deal of the world 
in her two seasons ; she did not at all like to be con- 
founded with the ingenue of Parisian comedy ; she was 
always ready to resent any confusion with this improb- 
able child. But though she knew that there were do- 


dick’s wandering. 


337 


mestic tragedies, as she knew that the world moves 
round the sun, she had realized the one fact as little as 
the other. For her the sun rose in the morning, and 
sailed aloft, and descended westward at even ; and for 
her no less the young married women, whom she had 
known in her native land, had risen at noon to receive 
graceful attentions, and had danced down the evening 
hours, without arousing a thought of the possibility of 
evil. She had thought many of them very silly, and 
wondered how they could devote their whole lives to the 
same amusements. That was. another matter. She had 
watched the gay world, as a clever innocent child might 
watch the play of marionnettes ; she had noted the flirta- 
tions of matrons as if they meant no more than the nat- 
ural pretty movements of birds ; she had been proud of 
noting them before other people, — proud of her quick- 
ness, and of her worldly wisdom forsooth. Then she 
had grown tired of these little games, and of all the at- 
tentions and flowers and pretty speeches which she had 
herself received ; and she had begged to be taken away 
that she might see new and more important things in 
the Old World. But though she was tired for a time of 
the business of fashionable society, and was inclined to 
despise the women of her acquaintance who seemed 
never to tire of it, it had never occurred to her to con- 
nect the tragic tales, of which faint whispers sometimes 
reached her ears, with the amusements of any woman 
whom she knew. She would have shrunk from thp bare 
idea as from the basest treason. Nothing of the sort 
had ever come near her life, or thrust itself on her no- 
tice. Indeed, the society in which this young lady of 
New England had played her part so prettily might 
have been blamed by the severe for frivolity or extra v- 


838 


dick’s wandering. 


agance, but even the most severe and most inquisitive 
would have found little else to blame. Even the gid- 
diest of American women seem to be born with a pecul- 
iar power of taking care of themselves ; even idle Amer- 
ican men respect, as a rule, the wives and sisters of 
their friends. The gay world, which IMiss Holcroft had 
viewed with interest and amusement, was not a wicked 
world ; and she for all her cleverness had looked on it 
with innocent eyes. Moreover, her own instinct and 
her father’s care had kept her from close friendship with 
those of the married women whose talk might have 
blown away the most delicate bloom of her fastidious- 
ness. Now she was angry with Dick. It seemed to her 
that she had come to a wicked old Europe, where pretty 
follies were malignantly misconstrued ; where men were 
not ashamed to be suspicious of their nearest kin ; where 
she could not enjoy her own quick sight without being 
supposed to regard wickedness with unbecoming levity. 
She was angry with this wicked old Europe, — and an- 
gry too with Mr. Richard Hartland. 

‘‘ Men have horrid minds,” said Miss Holcroft to her 
father, as they sat together in their parlor in the hotel. 
“ Undoubtedly,” answered he with his most amiable 
smile, as he dropped his paper on his knees and waited. 

And papa,” she continued, I am writing to Paris to 
hurry my new gowns. I mean to go out a little.” 

Mr. Holcroft whistled softly. Shall I have to go 
round with you ? ” he asked. 

“ No,” she said ; I am going out with Mrs. Toring- 
ton. You know how she has begged to be my chap- 
eron.” 

Mr. Holcroft continued to regard his daughter, but 
his face was graver. Is not Mrs. Torington somewhat 


dick’s wandering. 339 

young and beautiful for a chaperon, and somewhat — 
somewhat flirtatious ? ” 

‘‘ Oh, papa dear,” she said, ‘‘you know that I can take 
care of myself. I am going to take care of myself, and 
of my chaperon too. I have a plan.” She went and 
leaned over the back of his chair, and as he looked up 
at her, his smile came back. 

“ Oh, you have a plan, Kitty,” he said ; “ of course if 
you have a plan, I know my part, as Hamlet says. As 
to your taking care of yourself, I would trust you any- 
where and every time. You know that.” 

“ Thank you, papa,” she said, and she bent down to 
kiss his forehead. 

“ You have a fine area for selection,” he said, laying 
his hand on the bald top of his head. “And so you have 
had enough of poets, painters, and novelists, and our 
dear Madame Manetti ?” 

“ No,” she said emphatically ; “ but I have a plan.” 

Whatever Miss Holcroft’s plan might be, it is certain 
that the pleasure of vexing Dick was only a secondary 
inducement. He would without doubt take her much 
closer intimacy with his cousin as another proof of the 
essential levity of her character ; and this consideration 
made her smile. She determined to stand by Betty, 
who had been so kind to her : who was so beautiful ; of 
whom none but horrid men would dare to think ill ; 
whom in a moment of excessive admiration she had de- 
clared to be “ as sweet and lovely as she can be.” Betty 
Torington on her side had not been slow in returning 
the affection of this new friend. She said that her dear- 
est Kitty was the most amusing creature whom she had 
ever met. She delighted in her stories of American 
society, and in her fresh and lively comments on things 


340 


dick’s wandering. 


English. She insisted on learning the most piquant 
transatlantic expressions, and even such few fragments 
of the strange language of the Great West as the Boston 
young lady could teach her. W^hen Kitty at last con- 
sented to see something of London society under her 
care, the dignified chaperon was as pleased as a child 
with a new toy. She declared that she had been dying 
to be a duenna, and she prepared to play the important 
part with the utmost lightness of heart. 

Every day the two young women were more and 
more together. Every day Kitty was more successful 
in amusing and interesting Betty. Betty did not grow 
tired of the new part which she was playing ; and Kitty 
enjoyed going out in an unknown world, and finding 
herself as popular as in her own. Neither their styles 
clashed nor their dresses ; and men found it hard to de- 
cide which they liked best. But if Miss Holcroft was 
popular with the youth of the day, there was one of 
them who did not like her. Dolamore found it more 
and more difficult to talk to Mrs. Torington without the 
irritating presence of her new friend. Nor did Miss 
Holcroft like Harold Dolamore. It was perhaps a little 
inconsistent of her to be angry with Dick for looking 
with suspicious eye on Dolamore’s attentions, and to be 
angry with Dolamore for persisting in those attentions 
which she maintained to be so harmless. However, she 
did not trouble herself about her inconsistencies. She 
allowed herself to dislike the polite young man, though 
she was careful not to say a word against him to her 
dear Betty. She felt sure that Dick had abused Dola- 
more to his cousin ; but this was only to be expected 
from the clumsiness of a man ; she was glad that she 
could not make such a mistake. 


dick’s wandering. 


341 


One day when she was rather later than she had meant 
to be, she met Dolamore coming away from Mrs. Tor- 
ington’s door. 

‘‘My dear Betty,” she said, when she had run upstairs, 
“ he had an air of melodrama. Oh, yes, he stopped and 
said something polite,, but he had an air of melodrama.” 
Betty was flushed and happy ; she had been irritating an 
admirer. “ He abused me because you are always here. 
Is n’t that impertinent ? ” 

“ Does n’t he like me ? ” asked Kitty taking off her 
cloak. She was well aware that he did not. 

“ My dear, he almost lost his temper. It was such 
fun. He looked positively hideous for a moment.” 

“ Keally ? Is n’t he considered good-looking ? I think 
him handsome — not uncommon ; one sees too many 
men in the streets of London with shiny black hair and 
little black moustaches ; it ’s not very English. But he 
is considered handsome, is n’t he ? ” 

“ A great many women admire him very much in- 
deed.” 

“ Really ? Oh, Betty, how long have you had that, 
beautiful gown ? Why have I never seen it before ? ” 
And so the talk glided away for that time from the fas- 
cinations of Mr. Harold Dolamore. 


CHAPTER XLVL 


The progress of time did little to soften the feelmgs 
with which Mr. Dolamore regarded the young American 
lady, to whose society he was doomed so often. He did 
not forget to be scrupulously polite, though with all his 
heart he wished her away. It is even to be feared that 
he sometimes swore under his sleek moustache, when he 
thought of her liveliness and quick glances. “ Ah ! ’’ 
he exclaimed one day, as he was ushered into Mrs. Tor- 
ington’s drawing-room, ‘‘ may I say that I am glad to 
find you alone for once ? ” He dropped his voice, as he 
asked, to his softest tone ; but even as he spoke. Miss 
Holcroft turned with her brightest smile from the win- 
dow, where she had been half hidden by a curtain. 

“ I am so sorry, Mr. Dolamore,’’ she said ; “ but I 
can’t go till my father comes for me.” 

‘‘ Oh, don’t go,” said Betty sweetly smiling ; “ tea will 
come in a moment.” Then Harold Dolamore, who had 
been at a loss for a minute, expressed his hope that he 
would not drive Miss Holcroft away. 

“ Do you really hope that ? ” asked Kitty. “ How 
very kind ! ” 

‘‘ He knows,” said Betty, still smiling her sweetest, 
that if he ever drove you away I should never forgive 
him.” In recognition of this speech the gentleman bowed 
to Mrs. Torington, and then showed his teeth politely to 
her friend. 

Do you know, dear,” said Kitty, “ that I am alarmed 


dick’s wandering. 


343 


by Mr. Dolamore. He is so polite, — almost too polite 
for an Englishman.” Then she turned to him with her 
frankest smile, and added, You remind me of an 
American.” 

“ Very much flattered, I am sure,” he murmured after 
a minute, and bowed. 

“ Are you really ? I was afraid that you would not 
like it.” 

“ You take me for one of your ‘ leisure class,’ I 
hope ? ” he asked, after a pause. He smiled his best, 
but there was a slight cynical inflection on the American 
phrase. 

“ Why do you hope that?” she asked quickly in turn, 
with an air of sweet simplicity. “ Are you proud of do- 
ing nothing? You don’t do anything, do you, — except 
of course make yourself very agreeable at tea-time ? ” 

The grin, with which he answered, was rather wolf- 
ish. Of course I can’t do anything,” he said. 

You should have said that you did nothing but an- 
swer questions,” cried Kitty brightly ; “ and then I 
should have felt dreadfully snubbed. I have got into a 
dreadful habit of asking questions, since I came to Eng- 
land. You ought to correct me, Betty.” 

“ Oh, no,” said Betty ; I like you well enough as you 
are.” 

Then Dolamore began to address his remarks more 
directly to Mrs. Torington ; but she every other minute 
appealed lazily to Kitty with a look or monosyllable. 
And Kitty being by this time in a gay mood made quaint 
comments on the trivial events of the hour, and was 
talkative, and even began to ask more questions. At 
last the gentleman rose in no good humor to say good- 
by. He bent over Mrs. Torington and asked her some 


344 


dick’s wandering. 


question in a low voice ; but the lady answered him 
aloud. “ Oh, no,” she said ; I should n’t like it.” 

“ Then you won’t come,” he said with an assumption 
of indifference. He turned rather quickly to the door, 
and seemed to have forgotten Miss Holcroft’s presence. 
There was nobody in the hall to let him out, and the 
moment’s delay while he fumbled with the door-handles 
made him swear savagely. 

“ Is he angry ? ” asked Kitty innocently. 

“ I don’t know, and I don’t care,” answered Betty, 
“What did he mean by not saying good-by to you? 
He ’s rude and horrid.” 

“ I dare say he did not mean to be rude. Perhaps he 
only forgot my existence.” 

“ As if he could forget you ! I don’t care if he meant 
it or not. He ’s silly when he gives himself airs.” 

Then Kitty came and knelt down by the head of Bet^ 
ty’s sofa. “ You have been so sweet to me,” she said, 
“ that I won’t drive your friends away. I won’t come 
here any more.” 

At this declaration Mrs. Torington was so startled 
that she sat upright and opened her beautiful eyes wide. 
“ Kitty ! ” she cried ; “ if you stay away for a single 
day, I ’ll never forgive you. As if I did n’t like you a 
thousand times better than him ! ” 

Kitty had awaited the answer with much anxiety, and 
when it came, it was very sweet in her ears. She felt 
a glow of triumph, as she gratefully said, “ Do you, 
dear? I am so glad.” Then they kissed each other, 
and Betty leaned back again among her cushions. “ It ’s 
silly of him,” she said presently, “ to do nothing but 
dangle about at five-o’clock teas. He ought to emigrate 
or something.” 


dick’s wandering. 345 

^‘You would miss him dreadfully,” said Kitty, with 
an air of certainty. 

Not in the least,” 5aid Betty. If he thinks that, 
he ’s very much mistaken. He ’s not at all amusing, 
when he gives himself airs. I think I rather hate him.” 

0 Betty ! ” 

1 do. I ’m sure I rather hate him. O Kitty, I Ve 
got the most delightful idea. Leave that stuffy hotel, 
and come and stay here with me.” 

Why, it would be perfectly splendid ! ” cried Kitty 
with enthusiasm. But,” she added after a minute, 
I can’t leave papa.” 

Of. course not. He must come too. He’s a dear — 
as great a dear as my father ; and Jack likes him 
awfully — and you too. I think I shall be jealous.” 
Betty smiled comfortably, as she made this melancholy 
prophecy ; and Kitty laughed, as she said, ‘‘ But you 
would soon grow tired of me too.” 

“ No, dear,” said Betty with certainty ; and upon this, 
having nothing particular to say, they kissed each other 
again. Then they drank their tea together with much 
satisfaction ; and before they parted, they had settled 
that Kitty should be Betty’s guest. Neither of these 
ladies, since no male ears were there, made any serious 
pretence of expecting the refusal of her legitimate 
guardian. 

Harold Dolamore found the new state of things intol- 
erable. He was surprised by the strength of his own 
feelings. His vanity was wounded, but the sharpness 
of the pain made him think that he was victim of a more 
dangerous passion than vanity. He was even afraid of 
making a fool of himself in the eyes of the world ; and, 
»ince the chief object of his life was to maintain the 


346 


dick’s wandering. 


reputation of always doing the right thing, he did not 
dare to run the risk of appearing ridiculous. It made 
him cold to think what fools sagacious men had been 
under the impulse of passion. He determined to put 
an end to the situation without delay. He went to see 
Mrs. Torington, preparing himself for the probability 
that it would be for the last time. The visit was short, 
and as he left the house he met Miss Holcroft, who 
was returnmg from shopping with her maid. “ I am 
fortunate,” he said, in being able to say good-by.” 
The words were perhaps ambiguous, but the manner 
was very polite ; and Miss Holcroft saw something in 
his face, which stopped the quick answer on her tongue. 
“I have found something to do,” he continued. 

They Ve offered me a little thing at Cairo ; it ’s a 
very little thing, but better than tea-parties. I hoped 
that you would congratulate me.^’ 

So I do,” she said. I am very glad.” 

Ho doubt,” he said. He raised his hat, and began 
to move away ; but before she could go, he had turned 
back again, and now he was smiling. ‘‘After all I 
hope that it is only au revoir ! ” he said. “ I shall find 
you here, when I have spoiled the Egyptians.” 

“ I ’m afraid not,” she answered, looking at him cu- 
riously. She felt that he was going to say something 
which she would not like. Her maid had gone into the 
house ; she would have liked to run after her maid ; but 
Dolamore at least saw no sign of her trouble ; she 
looked at liim with quiet expectation. 

“ I hope I shall find you,” he said, dropping his voice 
to a confidential tone ; “ I hope I am not indiscreet ; I 
shall certainly write my congratulations from Cairo. I 
really do hope that I am not saying wliat I ought not • 


dick’s wandering. 


347 


but when you came to London after what we had all 
heard from the Levant, we all hoped that you would 
stay here — I am sure that everybody hoped so — and 
that our friend Dick — ah ! I see I have said the 
wrong thing ; please forgive me ; I meant well ; and — 
good-by.’’ 

For a minute she stood looking after him as he went 
quickly away ; the tears had come to her eyes and her 
lips were trembling ; she felt as if he had struck her, 
like a coward. Then her own bravery came back to 
her, and scorn of him. He was going ; that was the one 
thing which mattered ; she was determined to be glad. 
She ran up stairs to her friend with her heart full of 
gratitude. ‘‘ Betty, darling ! ” she cried, as soon as she 
was in the room — what is it, dear ? ” She was 
frightened by her friend’s strange looks. Betty was 
leaning against the mantelpiece, pale and with trem- 
bling lips. Kitty went to her, and drew her away to the 
sofa with gentle authority. Dear,” she said, has he 
frightened you ? ” And now the color was coming back 
to Betty’s cheeks, as she leaned against the young girl’s 
shoulder. “ He has been cruel,” she said presently, “ and 
horrid. He has said dreadful things, which he had no 
right to say. Kitty, he said that I had encouraged 
him ! ” Kitty was very angry with the man. At the 
moment she would have declared without hesitation that 
her friend had never flirted, nor been capable of flirta- 
tion, even in its most harmless form. 

And, O Kitty — he swore ! ” 

I always knew that he was not a gentleman.” 

“ Did you, dear ? ” asked Betty, who was returning to 
her normal level of serenity. “I thought you rather 
liked him. You used to defend him, I ’m sure.” 


348 


dick’s wandering. 


Did I, dear ? ” asked Kitty. Anyway he ’s going.’^ 
Yes ; and I am glad of it,” said Betty, solemnly. 
“ He was horrid, and he looked positively hideous. How 
could you ever say that he was handsome I ” 

It does n’t matter what he looks like. Nothing mat- 
ters except that he is going. He ’s going ; and I am so 
happy.” 

Why, Kitty, what ’s the matter ? Are you cry- 
ing ? ” 

Only because I am glad ; I ’m tired and glad. Oh, 
Betty, what a pity there are men in the world ! ” 

It ’s that horrid man that ’s made you cry,” said 
Betty. I hate him.” 

At this Kitty kissed her. So do I hate him,” she 
said. 

‘‘ Why, Kitty, I thought” — 

“ I hate him ; I hate him ! ” said Kitty, sobbing. Then 
they both cried a little, and comforted one another. 

Meanwhile Mr. Richard Hartland had been working 
himself into an unpleasant state of mind. It seemed to 
him that the two young women, in whom he felt keen 
interest, had formed a league for no better purpose than 
frivolous amusement and flirtation with dangerous men. 
Wherever he saw them, the most popular men surrounded 
them, and Dolamore, whom he liked least, was the most 
unwearied in his attentions. Dick frankly told himself 
that he did not understand women. His occasional 
doubts of his power of reading them were changed into 
a certainty of his ignorance. He looked with languid 
interest at Susan Bond, who seemed to be reestablish- 
*ug her influence over Ossie. He wondered if she 
meant to marry him ; and if so, whether she would suc- 
ceed. He did not prophesy ; and he was still further 


dick’s wandering. 


349 


from any disposition to interfere. Ossie had given up 
appealing to him for assistance in his passing troubles. 
He felt for a time as if he were of little use to any- 
body ; and this was a feeling which was very unpleasant 
to this energetic and confiding young man. 

But though he admitted his ignorance of women, 
Dick persuaded himself that he had grasped one truth, 
which was useful to him. He declared to himself with 
unnecessary iteration that Miss Holcroft’s close alliance 
with his cousin proved her beyond all possibility of 
doubt an essentially frivolous young lady. “ Charming, 
of course,” he said to himself, but absolutely frivolous, 
as I always in my heart believed.” He had not always 
believed it, but he almost persuaded himself that he had. 
He avoided the Toringtons’ house, where he protested to 
himself that he could do no good. He had spoken to 
his cousin, and if his speaking had produced any effect, 
it had made her bolder in carrying on her unlucky flir- 
tation and in defying the opinion of her acquaintance. 
He had debated whether it would be of any use to make 
others speak to her. His own mother was too far re- 
moved from this wicked world. He knew that, if he 
told her of Betty’s levity, he would pain her deeply and 
to no purpose ; for he knew equally well that Betty 
would put aside her aunt’s warnings as due to her old- 
fashioned ideas and seclusion from modern life. He 
could not help knowing this, for he had seen her often 
enough, when she was a child, accept her scoldings with 
perfect serenity and affection and a comfortable certainty 
that the reprimands of elders were part of the natui-al 
order of things. If Mrs. Hartland was too unworldly 
to produce any effect on her beautiful niece. Lady Kae- 
borough seemed to Dick equally ineffectual, though for 


850 


dick’s wandering. 


the opposite reason. She was in the centre of her 
whirlpool, and* all her splendid energies were devoted to 
the management of a rapid and encroaching society. 
To Dick in his present mood she seemed one of the 
most worldly, eminent among the frivolous, scarcely 
able to spare a moment for listening to his doubts and 
fears, and certain to dismiss them with a laugh. To 
women it was useless to turn. Of men the one who 
ought to interfere with Mrs. Torington’s conduct was 
undoubtedly her husband. But Dick had not yet aban- 
doned his belief in his ability to read men at least at a 
glance ; and he knew well that John Torington would 
choose to understand no man, who hinted suspicion of 
his wife. There was something in John Torington, 
which Dick respected as chivalry and condemned as 
pride, which made it impossible to speak to him on this 
subject ; and Dick was certain too that this same quality 
had prevented him from finding fault with Betty. In- 
deed, this young husband treated his wife from first to 
last with a respect which she but half appreciated, and 
a perfect show of confidence, which she accepted as a 
matter of course. Ilis pain was endured in silence, and 
he spoke of it to nobody in the world. Indeed, Dick 
was at his wits’ end. He was alarmed by a strong im- 
pulse, which came to him more than once, to seize Har- 
old Dolamore by the smooth throat or hit him a crack 
over the sleek head. After all, Dick was still young. 
Such a course of action would have done little to re* 
establish his infiuence over his beautiful cousin, and still 
less to silence the whispers of the scandalous. 


CHAPTER XLVIL 


At last Dick made up his mind to do something. He 
was not much pleased with his purpose, but it was bet- 
ter than nothing. He wrote to Hervie Langdon, who 
still lingered in Florence in spite of the growing heat. 
He took great pains with his letter, and when he had 
sent it, he felt happier, and less inclined to tear Dola- 
more to pieces. He awaited the effect with comparative 
patience. The effect was quickly apparent. Late in a 
still, sultry afternoon, when Dick was sitting moody in 
the den which was reserved for him in his mother’s lit- 
tle house, the door opened and his uncle entered. Mr. 
Langdon looked strong and well, and, as his nephew 
faced him with words of welcome, he regarded him with 
keen, humorous eyes. “ What ’s the matter, Dick my 
boy ? ” he asked ; ‘‘ are you ill ? ” 

“ No,” said Dick, ‘‘ I ’m all right. I ’m always well.” 

You don’t look so well as you are meant to look,” 
said Hervie Langdon, holding him by the shoulders ; 

and you wrote me such an odd letter, that I thought 
you must be in for a fever, or had fallen in love. And 
if you are free from both these maladies, may I ask why 
you have dragged me from Italy, where I was for once 
doing something useful ? ” 

“ But there is sometliing the matter,” said Dick rather 
sharply ; “ I told you in my letter ; you know what I 
mean ; Betty ” — 

Here he was interrupted by one of Mr. Hervie Lang- 


352 


dick’s wandering. 


don’s surprising bursts of laughter. “ My dear boy,” 
said he, when he was capable of speech, it is exquisitely 
comical of you to establish yourself as guardian of a 
young married woman.” 

I can’t see that ; it seems to me perfectly natural ; 
nobody else seems to care what ” — here he stopped in 
astonishment, for his extraordinary uncle was laughing 
again though with less abandonment. 

‘‘ And you lectured her, no doubt,” said Hervie Lang^ 
don ; and you argued with her.” 

“ Nobody else said anything ; so I ” — 

Yes ; I knew it. My dear boy, it ’s time you 
learned not to argue with women.” 

“ I hope I shall never be stopped by phrases of that 
sort,” said Dick shortly. It ought to be easy enough 
to make a woman see a thing as one sees it one’s self.” 

“ Then you succeeded with Betty ? ” asked her father 
with respectful interest. 

“ No,” answered his nephew honestly. 

My dear boy,” said Mr. Langdon, with a pleasantly 
didactic manner, “ don’t argue with a woman. If your 
intimacy permit, kiss her ; appeal to her affection for 
you, if she have any. Don’t argue with her except 
about trifles ; with a woman argument is a luxury ; she 
likes it, but she never -allows it to influence her actions. 
She may try to make it influence yours ; it ’s good 
enough for that. If she does try, don’t answer ; be as 
affectionate as your position warrants, and go away and 
do what she advises you not to do ; then come back and 
be affectionate again. When the thing is done, it ’s ten 
to one she ’ll come over to your side ; she has a weakness 
for accomplished facts ; all the deep conservatism of her 
nature compels her softly to acquiescence in that which 


dick’s wandering. 


353 


you have done ; she forgets in an hour all her admirable 
arguments against it. Some day you will hear her say 
that you followed her advice in that matter, and that :f 
you were always equally wise you would be always 
equally fortunate.” 

While Ilervie Langdon was delivering himself of this 
brief homily and smiling under his beard with enjoyment 
of his own advice, Dick stared at him with surprise and 
disapproval. He was shocked that h^is uncle should in- 
dulge in airy generalities about the sex, while he ought 
to be filled with anxious inquiries about his own child. 
Here was another careless person in a careless world. 

“ Then you won’t speak to Betty ? ” he asked seriously. 

“ I have spoken to her,” said Hervie Langdon, and 
I have done more: I have given her a box of sweet- 
meats from Boissier. What a charming girl she has 
staying with her ! ” 

Dick felt himself blush under his uncle’s eye, and was 
furious with himself, and with his uncle. “ You take it 
all quietly enough ! ” he cried hotly If you heard 
what people say ; if you saw that fellow Dolamore ” — 

“ I can’t see him, for he has gone.” 

Gone ? ” echoed the other in amazement. 

“ Gone to be deputy assistant something to somebody 
at Cairo. I asked Betty about him among other people, 
and she told me of his appointment; she was busy 
searching for a particular species of sweetmeat; she 
cared a great deal more for that particular sweetmeat 
than for the plausible young gentleman who left yester- 
day for Egypt.” 

I am so awfully glad,” said Dick. ‘‘ And she does n’t - 
miss him ? she does n’t care a bit ? ” 

Not a chocolate ! ” said Hervie Langdon. Then he 


354 


dick’s wandering. 


looked more gravely at his nephew.* Dick/* he said, 
“ yon *ve been having too much London ; or you ’ve been 
falling into love, — or some other gouty alFection. I 
should n’t have expected you to be suspicious. Have you 
been finding out for yourself that girls betray ? It seems 
strange that you should become a suspicious person.” 

Dick began to feel a little ashamed of himself. Per- 
haps I’ve been a fool,” he said. “I couldn’t stand 
knowing that people said things. I never thought — of 
course I never thought ” — 

“ My poor dear Marion’s daughter and your mother’s 
niece could not be other than a good woman,” said Her- 
vie Langdon gravely. “ You ought to have felt that ; 
and ” — and here he began to laugh again — “ you 
ought not to have dragged me back from Florence for 
nothing.” 

“ Of course if I ’d known that Dolamore was going,” 
began Dick — 

“ You ought to have found out. But no matter ! 
Betty ’s the gainer after all. She ’s very fond of M. 
Boissier’s sweetmeats. Come and see her now with me ; 
she won’t have gone to dress ; young people nowadays 
dine at unheard-of hours.” 

Dick stood undecided. He had avoided the Toring- 
tons’ house for some time past. Now he thought he 
would allow himself to be taken there ; it would seem 
natural that he should appear with his uncle, and strange 
if he refused to go with him. He had not seen Miss 
Holcroft for two whole days ; he surely might allow 
himself to be taken to the house where she was staying. 
Dick was falling into a new habit of trying experiments 
on himself. ‘‘ Come along ! ” said Hervie Langdon, and 
his nephew followed him dutifully. 


dick’s wandering. 


355 


As Mr. Langdon aud Dick were walking towards the 
Toringtons’ house, the quick eyes of the younger man 
saw smoke above Ihe house-tops. Hullo ! ’’ he said, 
“ where ’s that smoke coming from ? ” As he spoke, he 
quickened his pace ; and Hervie Langdon hurried after 
him. It can’t be far off,” said Dick again. A few 
minutes’ quick walking brought them to the corner of 
the street, in which the Toringtons lived ; and at this 
corner they were stopped by a dense mass of backs. 
Without delay, however, Mr. Langdon began to push his 
way vigorously to the side of one of the policemen, who 
were keeping back the gaping crowd. A few words 
passed between the constable and the new-camers, and 
Hervie Langdon and Dick knew that the house to which 
they were hurrying was on fire. There was no time 
for debate. As soon as they were freed from the crowd, 
Mr. Langdon started down the empty street at a brisk 
run ; but Dick flew by him and dashed into the front 
door, through which a little stream of men were carry- 
ing out .such household goods, as came to hand. Just 
inside the door he met Mr. Holcroft, who smiled upon 
him from beneath an arm-chair, which he was carrying 
on his upright head. A quick feeling of relief came to 
Dick, as he met this open smile. “ Where is she ? ” he 
asked breathlessly. 

Mr. Holcroft seemed to have no doubt to whom this 
question referred. Next door,” he answered, with a 
slight movement of his arm-chair to the right. 

“ She ’s not hurt ? ” 

No. Thank Heaven ! Nobody is hurt. It ’s only 
the roof that ’s on fire ; and everybody’s out.” 

And Betty and Tory ? ” 

At a garden-party somewhere. Poor young peo- 


356 


dick’s wandering. 


pie ! ” The tall gentleman spoke in a very sympathetic 
tone ; but his face wore its most common expression of 
easy good-nature, as he descended calmly into the street, 
coatless and with a silken arm-chair in place of his hat. 
Before he could carry this rescued piece of goods into 
the next house, Dick had dashed into it eager to see and 
to help. The firemen had declared that there was no 
fear of the fire spreading to a second house ; and so 
the hall of these kindly neighbors was already half full 
of the Toringtons’ portable goods, which were being ar- 
ranged in piles and groups under the direction of Miss 
Holcroft. The young lady was flushed and her eyes 
were shining, as with quick hand she received the lighter 
things or pointed to the proper place of some heavy piece 
of furniture. She greeted Dick with her kindest look. 

What can I do ? ” he asked. 

Nothing,” she answered, without stopping in her 
work for a moment ; “ there are too many people al- 
ready moving things. You are too late, Mr. Ilai’tland, 
— for once.” 

“ Can’t I help you to arrange them ? ” 

She shook her head ; she found time to look at him 
for a moment with that look, a little mocking, a little 
malicious, which reminded him of a spoiled child. ‘‘ The 
hall is too full of people already,” she said. 

I am to go then ? ” he said. 

‘‘ Go up on to the roof, and see if they are beating the 
fire. You won’t be in anybody’s way ; the firemen are 
on the roof of the other neighbor, where they can see 
better. IMr. Langdon’s there — Mr. Ossie.” Dick 
watched her for a minute, wondering at the skill and 
quickness of her little arrangements. Looking up and 
seeing him still there, she gave him a little nod, and 


dick’s wandering. 


357 


raised her eyebrows questioning. He thought that her 
face looked very sweet and true, and he wondered if 
he only fancied that the flush deepened on her cheek. 
Something almost made him shout aloud, as he sprang 
up the strangers’ stairs to find his way to the roof. 

Meanwhile the Toringtons were driving peacefully 
homeward from their garden-party. The evening was 
warm and almost breathless ; and Betty leaned back in 
her Victoria with a sense of repose, of satisfaction with 
things in general, and with herself in particular. She 
felt very good. Her husband and she had gone to this 
garden-party, like Darby and Joan ; and it had turned 
out to be very domestic, and soothing, and pleasant. 
She thought that all men, except Jack, were horrid ; 
and that flirtation was very silly. She could not imag- 
ine what could be the good of flirtation; she won- 
dered how Nellie Hurte Parkinson could go on as she 
did; she felt very superior. The truth is that Mrs. 
To ring ton was only just recovering from the fright 
which Harold Dolamore’s strange looks and words had 
caused at their last interview. She had been very much 
frightened ; she would never forget how he had fright- 
ened her ; she would never forgive him. Her easy, 
happy nature had never experienced so rude a shock. 
She had not told her husband of the uncomfortable 
things which Dolamore had said to her ; but the recol- 
lection of them made her feel Jack’s presence by her 
side as an indispensable luxury. She smiled to herself 
because he was there. She felt that there was nothing 
like a husband ; and she felt that this feeling did her 
credit. She was full of good resolutions. 

John Toriiigton on his side was happier than he had 
been for a long time. He was very glad that Dolamore 


358 


dick’s wandering. 


had gone away ; though he asked no questions about his 
absence, as he had asked none about his presence. As 
he had made heroic efforts that nobody might see that 
he found fault with any action of his wife ; so he only 
showed his new pleasure in her conduct by a double 
portion of gentleness. He too was full of good reso^ 
lutions. 

Driven along thus peacefully, happy together • and 
certain of unruffled happiness for the future, this young 
couple came suddenly on an unexpected catastrophe. 
Their carriage was stopped at the corner of the familiar 
street, and in a minute they knew that their roof was in 
a blaze. The crowd had become so dense that it was 
impossible to make room for the Victoria. Toringtoii 
jumped down and half lifted Betty from her place. She 
was very pale ; all her fine color had gone in an instant ; 
she clung to her husband like a child. “ Will you let 
me through, please ? ” said Torington to the nearest 
people, who had turned round to look at them, It ’s 
my house.” 

Make room for the lady ! ” said one. Don’t you 
hear, it ’s the gentleman’s ’ouse that ’s a-burnin’ ? ” said 
another. ‘‘ Ah, poor dear ! ” said a woman ; and otlier 
women murmured sympathetically, while they scrutinized 
the quality of Betty’s gown, and even tested it furtively 
with their fingers. The crowd made way as well as 
they could, and Torington, with his arm round his wife, 
advanced slowly towards a policeman, who was clearing 
a path to meet him. Even in the midst of her fear 
Betty felt proud of her husband, who held his fine dark 
head above the crowd. She was sure that no other man 
would be so cool and brave, and that all the women in 
the crowd were admiring him. She felt safe as she 


dick’s wandering. 


359 


clung to him ; and he did not loosen his support till he 
had half carried her into his neighbor’s hall. There 
Kitty ran to take her friend from his arms. “ You tell 
them where to put the rest of the things,” she said to 
him ; and then she turned all her attention to Betty, 
who presently began to smile again and to enjoy the 
novelty of the situation. 


16 


CHAPTER XLVIIL 


The roof on which Dick Hartland emerged was sepa- 
rated from the Toringtons’ by a low wall. Against the 
wall a short ladder was planted ; and on the top of the 
ladder was Osbert Langdon. Ossie looked round with a 
face full of glee. He had never been so near to a fire ; 
it was so hot that he was obliged once in every few min- 
utes to duck his head below the wall. It seemed as if 
he had clean forgotten that it was his sister’s roof which 
was being destroyed, though the fact probably intensified 
his feeling of nearness to the catastrophe. He certainly 
forgot to feel awkward in Dick’s presence. He wel- 
comed his cousin like a child at his first pantomime ; it 
was a thilling performance, and he had the only front 
place ; it was a splendid fight between fire and water, 
and he was wildly excited by the conflict. He made 
room as well as he could ; and Dick climbed up the lad- 
der till he could get a grip of the wall from behind his 
cousin, and a good view of the show. 

The air was almost motionless, and the smoke drifted 
very slowly across the two spectators, but enough in their 
direction to make them blink, and to explain the fire- 
men’s choice of the opposite place of attack. Through 
the smoke great jets of water were flung ; and as the 
water fell now here, now there, the fire burst out now 
there, now here, like a live thing leaping back at its 
pursuer. It was a hot struggle, with hissing and roar- 
ing. Now and then great bits of blazing roof fell in. 


dick’s wandering. 


361 


and, where they fell, the fire shot up and the smoke 
was thickened with dust. It seemed to Dick, who had 
little experience in such things, that the whole house 
must go. From the high place where he stood, he 
could look down into the street, and see the dense 
crowd — a great black mass in the growing darkness, 
save for numberless dim, flesh-colored spots, which were 
upturned faces gazing. It was strangely exciting. He 
could hear nothing but the roaring and the hissing ; and 
that great silent crowd far below, watching and waiting, 
enjoying and encouraging the mighty combatants, made 
his steady pulses quicken and his clear brain dizzy. He 
turned his hot, blackened face again to the scene close 
before him. Almost all the roof had fallen in ; and 
the little rooms of the top story lay open to the sky, 
except for a strong beam here and there, which still 
kept its place above them, though it was burnt black 
and eaten from end to end by little fires. It really 
seemed to Dick that now at last the water was gaining 
ground ; it was now all directed to a place on his right, 
for there the fire was still leaping fiercely, and the strife 
was furious. The smoke too was passing away to the 
right, and left the space before the cousins more clear 
to their smarting eyes. Suddenly Dick was startled by 
a sharp cry from Ossie. “ What ’s that ? ” cried Ossie, 
leaning forward over the wall, and pointing to the far 
corner of the passage, which they could now see from 
end to end as open as the rooms on either side. In the 
far corner of the passage there was something blacker 
than the shadows. ‘‘What’s that?” he repeated below 
his breath. 

“ Only a gown,” said Dick. 

“ Not a woman ? ” 


362 


dick’s wandering. 


« No.” 

“ It moved ! ” cried Ossie. 

No, no ; nonsense ! I ’ll swear it did n’t.” 

“ I shall see.” 

“ Stop ! For God’s sake, stop ! ” cried Dick ; but 
before be could seize him, Ossie had slipped from his 
encircling arm, and swung himself from the top of the 
wall. Dick almost leaped after him ; he barely stopped 
himself in time ; the weight of another man would have 
doubled the danger. He could do nothing but lean 
there gripping the wall, and looking. Where Ossie 
dropped, the boards of the passage seemed to give way 
under him, but he flung himself forward, and with his 
arms above his eyes, ran lightly on. Under his feet 
small smouldering bits of ruin were kindled anew; 
above his head a great beam, almost eaten away by 
little gnawing flames seemed ready to fall. Could this 
be Ossie, Dick thought, Ossie, who was made for ease 
and pleasure, in deadly peril, and of his own choice? 
He could only look, and hold himself ready to leap 
down in a moment, if his cousin fell. He saw him 
reach the end of the passage, and stoop to the corner ; 
and then between them the big beam slowly subsided. 
It came down so slowly that Dick could watch it and 
wonder if the floor would hold it. For a minute a 
great cloud of smoke and dust hid everything ; and as it 
cleared away, he saw Ossie come flying lightly over the 
smouldering beam ; and in another minute he reached 
down his arms and dragged him up to safety. He did 
not loose his hold, till he had drawn him down the lad- 
der on to the sound roof below ; and even then he could 
not speak. It was a gown after all,” cried Ossie ; 
“ a horrid old stuff gown — not w^orth saving ; ” and 


dick’s wandering. 


363 


then he burst out laughing, while the tears made strange 
marks down his blackened cheeks ; and then he clung 
to Dick, trembling and saying what a fool he was. 

“ Thank God ! Thank God ! ” was all that Dick 
could say. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 


On the morning after the lire, Dick found himself in a 
somewhat melancholy mood. He had risen early and 
gone out, before John and Betty, whom his mother had 
taken into her house, were visible. He had called at 
Ossie’s lodgings, and learned that the hero of the day 
before was sleeping like a child. Then, wishing to 
rouse himself to a more lively state, he had stepped 
briskly away to view the scene of yesterday’s conflict. 
From the street but little change was apparent ; for the 
fire had been finally vanquished in the top story, and the 
damage to the rest of the house had been caused solely 
by the water pouring through it. Since the outer walls 
appeared exactly as usual, Dick had boldly rung the bell 
of the friendly neighbor ; and after the proper inquiries 
and the expression of his hope that the storage of his 
cousin’s goods for that day at least would not be a serious 
inconvenience, he had asked permission to go up to the 
roof again and see how the place looked in the morning 
light. 

Sitting alone on the low wall of separation, Dick 
slipped into a line of thoughts more or less gloomy. It 
.s true that he was very glad of Ossie’s unexpected 
valor, as he had been very glad of Betty’s release from 
the attentions of Harold Dolamore. But when he 
thought of these subjects of congratulation, he could not 
help going on to think about himself, and how very 
little he had done to help either cousin. All his life 


dick’s wandering. 


365 


he Lad been well aware that one of his closest duties 
was to look after* Ossie and Betty. Now it seemed to 
him that he had been always misunderstanding them 
both ; that he had never interfered to any good pur- 
pose ; that they tumbled out of difficulties or into hero- 
ism, while he stood gaping and amazed. And if he had 
failed fully to understand Ossie, whom he had watched 
from infancy, how ridiculous must be his normal belief 
in his power of reading men ! Ossie, after all these 
years, had done something which fairly astonished him. 
He supposed that he must conclude that men were only 
a shade less difficult to understand than women, and if 
so, how could he be sure of the effect of any of his fine 
schemes for influencing men ? He supposed that he had 
better give up making plans for the present. He could 
not help thinking about himself ; and that was tedious, 
and seemed another sign of weakness ; and thinking of 
himself he doubted his power and use in the world, as 
he had never doubted tliem before. 

Sitting on the wall and kicking his heels idly, he 
doubted if his life had not been a mere series of mis- 
takes. Under his feet, where the fire had leaped and 
flashed through the smoke, were a series of small rooms 
like empty, lidless boxes, charred, blistered, and dismal, 
all open to a leaden sky. The scene was not without 
its influence on the young man’s thoughts. At the mo- 
ment it seemed to him far more certain that he had 
given great pain to his mother, than that he had done 
any good by refusing to settle his property in the usual 
manner. He was much too fond of Glaring to sell it, 
unless it was clear that he could not afford to do all for 
the place which the best possible landlord could do ; 
and, if anything were certain in this strange woild, it 


366 


dick’s wandering. 


was certain that he would always be rich enough to treat 
his tenants with the utmost generosity, and yet have 
money enough to waste in many experiments. He sup- 
posed that he should make experiments, though he felt 
for the first time in his life that they would probably 
fail. He had certainly failed in his first effort to woo a 
constituency. He did not repent of his conduct in that 
matter ; but he had not chosen the means to success. 
Probably he was one of those men who were doomed to 
failure — who could not adjust themselves to the facts 
of life. And he had always thought the world so sim- 
ple, and had purposed to play a useful, and perhaps a 
brilliant part therein ! Now he thought that both things 
and people were more complicated than he had ever 
imagined possible ; and that he must have been a fool 
not to see it. Sitting alone on the wall he blushed for 
his former certainty and arrogance. And if men and 
things were puzzling, were not women wholly inexplica- 
ble ? Was not Betty, after all these years, a complete 
enigma ? And Betty’s friend ? What had become of 
the ideal wife of his young dreams ? Where was that 
being of simple thoughts and gentle affections, who was 
to be a compensation to his mother for his own way- 
wardness, and a comfort to himself in his periods of re- 
pose, — at home in the housekeeper’s room, interested 
in the linen closet, respectful to the family receipts? 
He was beginning to think that there were no such 
women in the world ; and that, if there were such, they 
must be strangely insipid. Certainly they would be un- 
like the clever girl who was so often in his thoughts. 
If she were only all which he had sometimes hoped, he 
thought that she would be a wife worth twenty docile 
help-mates, studious of his comfort and careful of the 


dick’s wandering. 


367 


W’eekly books. She would be a real companion, a woman 
to love, and a friend to talk to, loyal as gay, and stead- 
fast for all her variety. If only she were such an one, 
and not rather one whose chief interest was given to the 
frivolities and flirtations of a useless life. And here a 
bright innocent face seemed to rise before him, mocking 
him a little, a little deprecating his harsh judgment. 
How hard it seemed that he could not understand 
women ! What could she have meant by leaping sud- 
denly into the whirl of London society ; by showing 
herself everywhere in the centre of a fast set and with 
a young chaperon, who was being talked about ? Was 
it possible to acquit her of levity and caprice ? And 
then a thought came to him which made him look up 
suddenly with a flush on his cheek, though in a moment 
he had laughed at it as fantastic. What if she had at- 
tached herself so closely to Betty that she might win 
her from the insidious attentions of Dolamore ? He 
thought her clever enough for anything ; but yet he re- 
jected the explanation as far-fetched and fantastic. It 
was much easier to explain her sudden change as due to 
levity and caprice. He could not tell ; and he could not 
trust. All which he could do was not to sit all day on 
another man’s roof staring into blackened boxes, and 
speculating without a chance of knowledge. He swung 
himself impatiently from the wall ; and he set forth to 
see if Ossie were yet awake, and how he was after his 
adventure. 

Mr. Osbert Langdon was awake, but still in bed. He 
was rather sorry for himself, for his feet were blistered 
a little and very tender. But when he saw Dick coming 
into the room, he forgot the painful results of heroism. 

Dick,” he called out from the bed, “ you would n’t 


368 


dick’s wandering. 


have believed it of me, would you ? It ’s a most sur- 
prising thing ! 1 could n’t do it to-day.” 

Nobody ’s expected to do that sort of thing every 
day,” said Dick, holding his friend’s hand tight. “ It 
was splendid.” 

‘‘ For that occasion only,” murmured Ossie in a con- 
templative manner ; and all for a fusty, old stuff gown 
that went to tinder in my hands ! But I ’m awfully glad 
I did it. Do you know why, Dick ? ” 

“ No,” said Dick ; “ but I know why I ’m glad. I 
thought once that you played me rather a dirty trick. 
I ’ve got to ask your pardon for that. I ought to have 
known you better.” 

“But I did play a dirty trick,” said Ossie, “an in- 
fernally dirty trick, in that beastly wood by the Bos- 
phorus. I feel sick when I think of it ; and I ’ve never 
been able to look you in the face since I did it.” 

“ Never speak of it again,” said Dick, pressing his 
cousin’s hand. “ I ’ll never think of it again. After 
yesterday I never can believe again that you won’t 
always do great things whenever you have a chance.” 

“ Don’t go launching me on a career of hairbreadth 
escapes,” said Ossie plaintively. “Just think what I did 
in that beastly wood ! I heard you call, old chap. 
That ’s the simple truth. And I ran away. Just as you 
shouted, my horse gave a kind of jump forward, and just 
as I was going to pull him back, — all those damned 
things, that I ’d been hearing and saying all my life — 
about each for himself, and saving yourself while you 
can, and all the rest of ’em — they all came at me at 
once ; and before I had time to think, I was kicking that 
brute of a horse back to that infernal place with the 
name I never could remember , and I was so ashamed of 


dick’s wandering. 


3G9 


myself — I did n’t suppose that I could be ashamed like 
that — that I could n’t tell you the truth ; and I lied. 
First, I ran away ; and then I lied ; and now I ’ve told 
you, and — that ’s how it was.” 

Ossie lay back, looking so like a child who had con- 
fessed some tremendous breach of nursery law, that Dick 
began to smile. ‘‘We ’ve had enough of that,” he said ; 
“ we ’ve both said we ’re sorry ; and it’s done with for- 
ever. Has Miss Bond heard of the great performance ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Ossie, relapsing into smiles ; “ I ’ve had 
a little note.” 

“Are you engaged, or not? ” asked Dick, slipping nat- 
urally back into his position as Mentor. Ossie pondered 
a little. “ I suppose I am,” he said ; “ she ’s an awfully 
good girl. I ’m fond of Susan. She ’s very good for 
me. She ’s very clever. Is n’t she ? ” 

“ Yes. She ’s clever enough.” 

“ She says that you never liked her.” 

“ Does she ? ” Dick felt as if he ought to contradict 
the lady’s statement, but his liking for strict truth stood 
in the way. “ I don’t dislike her,” he said. “ If she 
made you a good wife, I should learn to like her fast 
enough.” 

“ I need somebody to look after me, don’t I ? ” asked 
Ossie gravely. 

“ Oh, if that ’s all, I ’ll look after you.” 

“ You conceited old chap,” said Ossie smiling again ; 
“ you never did it half so well as she does. Do you 
know that since you gave me up ” — 

“ I never gave you up,” said Dick. 

“ Do you know,” began Ossie again, by no means dis- 
composed, “ that for a whole year I ’ve not touched a 
card nor made a bet ? That ’s all her doing.’ 


370 


dick’s wandering. 


‘‘ Is it ? Then I do like her. And Ossie, I am most 
awfully glad. Did you promise her ? ” 

No. She won’t let me make promises. She ’s an 
awfully good sort ; and she ’s capital fun ; and she ’s 
very fond of me.” He looked so absurdly pleased with 
himself, that Dick burst out laughing. 

“ You should n’t go laughing at one’s good resolu- 
tions,” said Ossie with dignity. 

“ Then,” said Dick, “ I shall wish Miss Susan joy the 
next time I see her. I don’t know if I ought to con- 
gratulate her.” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Ossie sweetly smiling. 

Between Mr. Langdon’s lodgings and Mrs. Hartland’s 
house Dick had time, in spite of his quick walking, to 
relapse* into a melancholy mood. He was very glad that 
there was no longer any shadow between Ossie and him- 
self ; but he foresaw plainly enough that another person 
with another influence was coming closer to his wa}-- 
ward cousin ; he thought that the days of the old boyish 
friendship could return no more. Of course it was well 
that it should be so. Superannuated boyhood is a piti- 
ful thing, at which the young may laugh. It was natural 
that Ossie should find his nearest friend in the woman 
who would marry him. Dick thought — though, as he 
walked, he jerked his head impatiently at the notion of 
of prophesying about women — that Susan Bond with 
her practical cleverness and patient love would take 
good care of her husband. “ Even Ossie sees that she 
does more for him than I could,” Dick said to himself, 
“ though that is n’t saying much.” He was gloomy, 
when he let himself into his mother’s house, and went 
slowly up-stairs. The door of his mother’s sitting-room 
was open, and he looked in. Mrs. Hartland was sitting 


dick’s wandering. 


371 


on her little sofa near the window, and by her side was 
IMiss Holcroft. To see them there together almost took 
away Dick’s breath. So far as he knew, they had not 
met before. When he first found out that the Ilolcrofts 
were in London, he had asked his mother to call on 
them, as people who had been kind to him abroad. Mrs. 
Ilartland had called at their hotel, but had not found 
them at home ; and Miss Holcroft had made her visit in 
return, but also without effect. Then Mrs. Hartland had 
asked the travellers to dinner ; but by this time the young 
lady had made her sudden plunge into gay society, and 
was engaged every evening. And Dick had been rather 
glad that his mother and Miss Kitty did not meet ; for 
he was himself deeply offended by the young lady’s new 
departure in frivolity, and he had made up his mind 
that, if there were anything certain about women, it was 
certain that these two would not understand each other. 
And now he saw them sitting close together in the most 
intimate corner of his mother’s own room. He stood 
still in the doorway, and forgot to speak, wondering what 
they thought of each other. He could not see his moth- 
er’s face ; but her hands lay idle in lier lap, and she 
seemed to be listening with interest. He could not hear 
what the girl’s low voice was saying ; but she was speak- 
ing, as if to a friend. Presently Kitty’s eyes, which 
were full of earnestness, met his ; and their expression 
changed, as they looked at him, to a demure delight in 
his surprise. The flush on her cheek was reflected more 
faintly on the face of the older woman, as she turned 
to see what had made her companion suddenly silent. 
“ And now I must really go,’' said Kitty. “ If I keep 
my maid waiting, she avenges herself by not doing my 
hair becomingly.” 


372 


dick’s wandering. 


And you will come again to-morrow to see Betty ? 
asked Sophie Hartland, smiling. 

“ Yes,” said Kitty ; “ and to see you if I may.” 

Then Mrs. Hartland kissed her ; and Dick felt a 
cold thrill run down his back. Neither of these ladies 
seemed in a hurry to notice him. He made a move- 
ment, as if he would accompany the visitor to the front 
door. 

“ Please don’t,” said Miss Holcroft, and she passed 
him quickly, and ran lightly down the stairs. 

Why did you never tell me how nice she was ? ” 
asked Sophie Hartland, when they had heard the street- 
door shut. 

“ Do you like her, mother ? I never could make out 
— I couldn’t understand — I’m not sure now.” He 
stopped, finding it hard to explain himself. 

“ You ought to have felt how nice she was,” said 
his mother gravely. Dick felt as if he were being 
scolded in a manner but little expected. ‘‘ Did she say 
anything about me ? ” he asked rather eagerly. 

‘‘ No,” answered Sophie Hartland, with the dawn of 
a smile on her serious mouth : “ we have been having a 
good long talk about Betty.” 

As Dick stood looking at his mother, he began to feel 
as if he had a thousand things to say to her. Then it 
suddenly seemed impossible to say anything. He kissed 
her, and went out. He went down the stairs and into 
the street, as if he expected to find Miss Holcroft lin- 
gering on the door* step. It was a quiet little street, and 
almost empty ; and Dick stood for a minute hatless on 
the pavement without attracting attention. He stood 
quite still, though his feelings were somewhat tumultuous. 
^ I ought to have felt it,” he said to himself ; “ I ought 
to have felt how nice she was.” 


CHAPTER L. 


When Dick first woke on the next morning, he could 
not tell why he was so glad. The sky was dull ; and 
only the day before he had felt himself oppressed by the 
dullness and languor of the London air ; but now he 
did not give a thought even to the prospect of a poor 
harvest. To-morrow will be fine, he thought ; anything 
might happen to-morrow ; and meanwhile to-day was 
exciting. Only yesterday it had seemed natural that 
boyhood had gone forever ; to-day he had forgotten that 
he had ever had such a thought ; he felt an inclination 
to hustle somebody. Yesterday, in the view of the un- 
certainty of things in general, he had resolved to abide 
by one decision ; and this one decision was that he would 
make no plans whatever, until he had more reason to 
trust his insight. Now his mind was busy with new 
schemes, recalling many talks with Mr. Holcroft, leaping 
to great conclusions, and busy criticising the means. He 
proposed to do something, however little, to strengthen 
the friendship betwen England and America. In the 
old country a few bad harvests and a dense and rapidly 
increasing population would make a steady stream of 
emigration necessary ; while for the new there was no 
more vital interest than that she should preserve her 
English character. 

“ I am undoubtedly a prejudiced person,” Mr. Hol- 
croft had said ; and I do not deny that I have no wish 
.0 belong to a Chinese America ; nor to a German 


374 


DICK S WANDERING. 


America ; nor to an Irish America. I take it that no- 
body will dispute the value of a regular and steady sup- 
ply of the good, old-fashioned, just and dominant Anglo- 
Saxon article.” Remembering such speeches, Dick was 
hardly out of his bath, when he had determined to lose 
no more time before his visit to the corn-lands of the 
Red River, and the new cattle-ground of Montana ; and 
he had not got into his coat, before he had developed 
the plan of a great College, where men of all classes, 
might acquire quickly and cheaply, before they left Eng- 
land, the knowledge most valuable to the agricultural 
colonist. Capitalists could not fail to be impressed by 
this excellent idea. He would fly to the West for a 
short visit ; see for himself what men needed who emi- 
grated to these vast and fertile regions ; and come home 
to make good use of the money, which would flow into 
his admirable College. By every means the ties be- 
tween the two kindred countries must be strengthened 
for their mutual benefit. If America were to send her 
wheat, England must send in return her surplus bone 
and sinew. Englishmen must learn to feel at home 
in America, as Americans in England. It was wonder- 
ful how Dick’s heart had warmed towards the Western 
world. 

Everybody seemed happy on that dismal morning. 
John Torington was gayer than he had been since the 
days of his honey-moon. It seemed as if the damage to 
his London abode, and the complaints of his tenants in 
the country, had been all that was needed to raise his 
spirits. He spoke of Betty, who had not yet quite re- 
covered from the shock of the fire, with unprecedented 
freedom. He smiled, as he spoke of her good inten- 
tions, — of her demand to be taken into the country, and 


dick’s wandering. 


375 


to be allowed to practice economy tliroughoiit the au- 
tumn and winter. He seemed no longer afraid that Bet- 
ty’s relations might speak to him of her in disparaging 
terms ; that he himself might be betrayed into criticising 
her. He was beginning to feel that he could love her 
none the less, though he admitted to himself that she 
was not absolutely perfect ; and to feel too that it was 
j^leasant not to have to blind himself forever, as he had 
tried at first to blind himself, even to such trifling facts, 
as that her appetite was more robust than suited his fas- 
tidious theories of young ladyhood delicately nurtured. 

It seemed natural to Dick that a pleasant surprise 
should come to him on that morning. He had not left 
the breakfast-room, when a pleasant surprise came. 
There was a sharp ring at the front-door bell, a voice in 
the passage, and Fabian Deane rushed in. Fabian liked 
to surprise people. He had crossed from Paris in the 
night, and after a bath and breakfast he appeared with 
the suddenness of Mephistopheles before his former pu- 
pil. Here was the very thing, which Dick wanted. 
Dick scarcely allowed him to shake hands with Mrs. 
Hartland, before he carried him off to his own peculiar 
den. There finding that Mr. Deane was charged with a 
fiery scorn of Europe and everything European, he be- 
gan to open to him his fine outlook Westward. Fabian 
had been fanning in his own bosom the smouldering en- 
thusiasm for Levantine colonization, and had come to 
Dick, that he might be told that the plan of making a 
moda. farm in Palestine was by this time practicable. 
But it did not take long to convert Fabian Deane from 
East to West ; he flew round the compass ; his eyes fast- 
ened on his pupil began to burn with their wonted fires, 
and he broke into occasional exclamations of interest and 


376 


dick’s wandering. 


admiration. Soon he had left Dick far behind. He was 
sure that the College for emigrants might be left to take 
care of itself. “ Why should we not strip ourselves of 
everything ? ’’ he asked, and was hurt, when Dick laughed 
at the question. He was eager at the moment to shake 
off the dust of Europe forever, and to follow Dick 
with some hundreds, or thousands, or tens of thousands 
of fellow-laborers to found a new home, if not to inaugu- 
rate the golden age, on the fertile plains of Minnesota. 
It seemed to him unworthy of his friend to wish to re- 
main an Englishman, and to live in England, and even 
on that little spot of little England, which was dear to 
him as Glaring Park. Fabian, glaring on the hearth-rug, 
felt himself of a wider spirit, a creature to be cabined 
in no pelting farm ; while Fabian’s unexpected presence 
and ebullient enthusiasm had its usual effect on Dick, 
and made him look more coolly and critically on his own 
sudden plans. “ No, no,” he said ; “ I am emphatically 
English. I believe in this little England ; and I love 
her, as good Americans should love her. She ’s a grand 
little place, and not played out yet.” 

“ Played out ! ” cried Fabian. “ Who ever thought 
she was ? It ’s treason even to think of it. England ! 
My word ! ‘ This other Eden ’ — what is it ? — ‘ demi- 

paradise ; — this happy breed of men, this little world ; 
this precious stone set in the silver sea ; this land of 
such dear souls, this dear, dear land, dear for her repu- 
tation through the world, — England, bound in with the 
triumphant sea ’ ” — 

“ Yes, yes,” said Dick ; “ you need n’t give up being 
a Briton yet. But we ’ll think about this Western idea. 
I must have a day or two to think ; I feel in a whirl ; 
us if I were being carried somewhere in an express 


dick’s wandering. 


377 


train. Things have crowded on me lately in the strang- 
est manner. I must have a little time — that is, after 
to-day. To-day I have one other thing to do, and 
then ’’ — 

“ What are you going to do to-day ? ” 

“ A mere trifle ! ” said Dick with his face beaming. 
“ But it must be done. I ’ll go and do it now.” 

‘‘ I’ll go with you,” said Fabian ; but Dick shook his 
head. “ No,” he said ; ‘‘ make yourself at home here ; 
I ’ll come back ; good-by.” He ran down-stairs, leaving 
Fabian staring and frowning on the hearth-rug. Dick 
walked through the street with a triumphant feeling. 
He was as one who has awaked out of sleep, or been 
freed from an evil spell. He seemed to see the world 
with fresh delight, and the people thereon with eyes 
which again saw clearly. How could he have doubted 
her ? Like Romeo’s, his bosom’s lord sat lightly on his 
throne. He was excited, as if he were riding at a big 
pace ; he walked like a bridegroom ; he felt an exulta- 
tion, which must be the forerunner of victory. 

When Dick reached the hotel, he was told that Mr. 
Holcroft was out, and that Miss Holcroft was engaged. 
He could not bear to turn away. He sent his card to 
the lady, with a request that she would see him for a 
minute. After a short time he was ushered into the 
Holcrofts’ sitting-room ; it was empty. His excitement 
was now less pleasant. As he walked up and down, 
scraps of sentences passed through his head ; but he 
would not settle on any words. He had made up his 
mind to trust to the inspiration of the moment ; when 
he saw her, he would know what to say. At last, as he 
turned in his walking, he noticed a strange thing. There 
was a line of light under the folding doors ; and he noticed 


378 


dick’s wandering. 


that this line of light was broken, now in one place, 
now in another. Then he knew that she was hesitat- 
ing on the threshold. He smiled with pleasure in her 
quick perception; he thought that she must have felt 
his purpose in the air. He looked at the door, waiting 
till she should come in with the flush on her cheek, and 
an unusual shyness in her gray eyes. As he looked, the 
door opened slowly, and she came in with downcast 
eyes, pale and troubled. At the sight of her, his valor 
turned to fear ; but he steadied himself and spoke bravely. 
“ You must know why I have come,” he said, as he took 
her cold hand in his. She said nothing ; she would not 
look at him ; but he felt the little hand lifeless in his, 
and he dropped it. As it fell by her side, he felt as if 
hope went with it, but he must needs have a plain an- 
swer. “ I came to ask you to be my wife,” he said. 

“ Oh, I am so sorry ” — she said. She seemed to 
find it hard to speak, and still she would not raise her 
eyes to his. He felt the need of all his strength. “ It 
can’t be, then ? ” he said simply. There was a pause 
before she answered, and when the answer came she 
seemed to speak with the same difficulty. 

‘‘ I am so sorry,” she said again almost in a whisper. 
She looked so unhappy, that Dick forgot to pity him- 
self. 

I can’t bear to hurt you,” he said. “ You must for- 
give me. I suppose that I ought to have known.” He 
saw her lips move, but still she would not raise her 
eyes. 

“ I hope I did not make you think ” — she began 
in a low voice; but she could say no more, and her 
hand seemed to stop short in a gesture of entreaty. Dick 
would have liked to say that she had given him no cause 


dick’s wandering. 379 

for hope, but certain of her passing looks and words 
came back to him, and checked him. 

I ought to have known,” he said presently. 

She knew in an instant that he had not given her the 
assurance for which she asked. For a second her eyes 
were lifted, but they fell again, as she said more coldly, 
I am sorry,” and then she could say no more. 

“ Good-by ! ” said Dick, with his hand on the door- 
handle. As he opened the door, she asked quickly, al- 
most eagerly, May not we be friends still ? ” 

“ Yes,” he answered. For a minute he stood there, 
looking at her ; but her eyes were not lifted from the 
carpet. A passionate appeal seemed to be rising to his 
lips, but it was not uttered. He took his last look at 
her pale downcast face ; he would have liked to touch 
her hand again, but he would not. He shut the door 
gently behind him, and went out. 

In less than a week the Holcrofts had started for 
America. 


CHAPTER LI. 


Months had gone since the Holcrofts’ departure for 
America, and the winter was almost at an end, when 
Mr. Kirby found himself again at Glaring. His excel- 
lent wife had noticed that her lord was a little hot- 
headed, and had suggested change of air. She had been 
pooh-poohed for her advice, and her advice had been 
followed. She declared that she was so busy with the 
household and children that she could not go away ; she 
knew that it would be better for him to go to Glaring 
without her. So with all the freedom of a bachelor, 
and already the better for his change, Mr. Kirby, after 
an excellent dinner, sat in his favorite corner by the fire, 
and sipped his claret; he had not tasted wine so well 
for months. There was nobody else in the room except 
his old friend Hervie Langdon, who still sat at the table 
with his arms placed squarely thereon, and contemplated 
the prominent politician at ease in the big arm-chair. 
Their young host had gone away for a night on busi- 
ness ; and even this fact was an additional luxury to 
Mr. Kirby, for Dick remained as a text for his dis- 
course, and he was inclined to talk about Dick. The 
curtains were drawn ; the room was full of mellow light ; 
in the drawing-room there awaited him two agreeable 
ladies — Mrs. Hartland, whom he still regarded as a 
charming little woman, and Mrs. Torington, who was 
looking lovely, though like himself she had come for 
change of air. Altogether Mr. Kirby was enjoying the 


dick’s wandering. 381 

passing hour. He could find fault with Dick without 
anj great disturbance of his own full-fed serenity. 

“ Confound me,” said Mr. Kirby, if I can make out 
what the boy’s waiting for. There are good things 
ready to drop into his mouth, and I ’m damned if he ’ll 
open it.” After this the politician reopened his own 
mouth to some purpose, and filled it with Margaux. 

‘‘ What good things ? ” asked Hervie Langdon. 

‘‘ Seats in Parliament.” 

Strange things to drop into your mouth,” said Mr. 
Langdon softly and with perhaps improper flippancy. 

Dick can wait,” he added. ‘‘ He ’s absurdly young.” 

“ It ’s full time he got over his crotchets. We know, 
my dear Hervie, that crotchets are all right for boys. 
But if they stay in the system, there ’s the deuce to pay. 
It ’s full time Dick dropped his revolutionary nonsense.” 

‘‘ Dick is n’t revolutionary,” said Hervie Langdon. 
“ He ’s almost too prudent to be interesting. He ’s 
what our friend Holcroft calls, ‘ level-headed.’ ” 

I don’t know what you call prudent,” said Mr. 
Kirby. I never saw him when he had n’t some pre- 
posterous scheme, some mare’s nest, some — some ” — 
Being at a loss for a stronger expression he filled his 
mouth with claret and rolled it on his tongue. 

“ He ’s sanguine,” said Hervie Langdon smiling un- 
der his beard. “ It ’s a delightful gift. Dick always 
thought he could do anything, and see through every- 
body. But he ’s changed, somehow. I wonder if you ’ll 
notice it. He expects less. He ’s graver and older 
He’s like a man who has had a steadier.” As Mr. 
Kirby only grunted and settled himself more comfortably 
in his chair, his friend, who seemed more willing to talk 
than usual, asked him a question : Don’t you think 


382 dick’s wandering. 

he ’ll be a more useful member after this American 
trip ? ” 

“ I never knew anybody get any good from going to 
America,” Mr. Kirby said. “ It frightens ’em into 
Tories.” 

And do you think there ’s any fear of that with 
Dick ? ” 

I wish to heaven there was ! ” 

‘‘Why?” 

“ To think,” said Mr. Kirby solemnly, “ of a fellow, 
with a property like this, playing with revolution. It ’s 
flying in the face of — of everything ; it ’s disgusting ; 
it ’s — it ’s the dam’dest stuff and nonsense — that ’s 
what it is.” 

“ You are all wrong about Dick,” said Ilervie Lang- 
doD, looking pleasantly across the table at his friend, 
who flushed redder at this unexpected statement ; “ you 
are quite wrong in calling him revolutionary. He has 
a most wholesome distrust of fundamental principles. 
Where a thing is clearly wrong, he itches to put it right ; 
it ’s a good workman’s spirit ; I feel sure that Dick wdll 
make a good workman.” 

“ And how about land ? ” asked Mr. Kirby. “ Do 
you mean to tell me that he has n’t a mass of preposter- 
ous ideas about land ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Hervie Langdon, “ I do. He has read 
about all theories, but he has adopted none of them. 
I ’ve been talking to him lately about land reform ; and 
he ’s tame — too tame I think. I ’ve a sneaking fancy 
for the Nationalization of land, myself.” 

“ You ain’t a politician,” said Mr. Kirby, with a 
chuckle. 

“No, thank Heaven ! ” said Mr. Langdon. “But I 


dick’s wandering. 


383 


suppose that Dick must be one ; and he won’t have my 
Nationalization at any price. He says the country 
would be ruined by the compensation which would have 
to be paid. He ’s prudent enough for a Prime Minister. 
He believes in no land reform, except in not allowing 
land to be settled on non-existent babies, and giving ten- 
ants something for existing improvements when their 
time ’s up.” 

‘‘ Those are all right,” said Mr. Kirby, judicially. He 
had finished his claret, and had lighted a big cigar. 
With his feet stretched out towards the fire, and his 
whole body soothed by the sweet influence of the best 
tobacco, the politician was ready to allow himself to be 
wooed into a more hopeful mood. A young man who 
had such excellent claret could not go far in dangerous 
paths. But the politician’s placidity was soon rujffled 
again. 

What do you think of Nicholas Emmens ? ” asked 
Hervie Langdon. 

A damned Communistical cobbler,” said Mr. Earby 
without hesitation. 

‘‘ I suppose you know that he ’s gone ? ” asked the 
other. 

Gone ? ” cried Mr. Kirby, hotly. 

He has gone to make shoes in Kansas City. He 
wants to start his children in a larger room.” 

And that cottage and garden ? ” 

‘‘ Don’t you know that Dick has bought ’em back ? ” 

No ! The rascal made him pay for them, I ’ll be 
bound ; that ’s what he took ’em for ; our young friend 
burnt his clever fingers there, ha, ha ! ” and Mr. Kirby 
chuckled. 

Wrong,” said Hervie Langdon, smiliug. He 
17 


384 


dick’s wandering. 


wanted to give them back, as they had been given to 
him. I persuaded him to let Dick buy them.” 

“ You ! ” 

Yes, I — for his wife’s sake. I Ve seen a great 
many good women. Most women are good. But I 
never saw so good a woman as Mrs. Emmens.” Mr. 
Kirby snorted disrespectfully ; but Hervie Langdon 
only smiled, as he continued. ‘‘ Just listen to this. It ’s 
the best thing ever said. Dick and I went down to say 
good-by to the Emmens family. Everything was ready ; 
everything was in beautiful order ; and Mrs. Emmens 
was talking to her baby, as if Kansas City was only half 
a mile away. What do you think that woman said to 
Dick ? It was beautiful. She wished him a good 
wife.” 

“ Nothing very remarkable in that,” said Mr. Kirby 
puffing at his big cigar. 

‘‘ Wait a bit. What do you think she said to him 
after that ? You ’d never guess. ‘ And I do hope, sir,’ 
she said, ‘ that you and she may be as happy as we are.’ 
Is n’t it beautiful ? Fancy that speech from a woman 
who has to work like a nigger, with a pack of children 
and a husband of a doubtful temper, and a journey be- 
fore her of four thousand miles or so and of unknown 
discomforts, — fancy that speech from such a woman to 
a young landowner, with both pockets full of money, 
and an influential cousin with both pockets full of bor- 
oughs ! I call it beautiful.” 

“ My dear Hervie, I had no notion you were so elo- 
quent.” Mr. Langdon looked at his friend for a minute, 
and then unexpectedly burst out laughing. 

‘‘ What on earth are you laughing at ? ” asked the 
politician, as he had often asked before. “ Well, I hope 


dick’s wandering. 


385 


you are right about Dick,” he said presently. “ You 
know, Hervie, how anxious I am that the dear boy 
should succeed.” 

‘‘ He ’ll succeed,” said Hervie Langdon. He ’ll 
come back from America and tell you how much wheat 
they grow to an acre in Dakota, and how much per 
cent, they made out of beef in Wyoming ; where cob- 
blers had better go to, and where tailors — and all that 
sort of thing. And then with all sorts of useful knowl- 
edge in his head, you can bring him in for some virtuous 
borough as a great authority on American competition, 
and on the emigration of superfluous artisans and am- 
bitious laborers.” 

Mr. Kirby was smoking with a thoughtful air. Tell 
me, Hervie,” he said presently with more mildness. 
‘‘ About this going to America ? There ’s nothing else, 
is there ? He ’s not going after that American girl ? ” 

‘‘ No,” said Mr. Langdon ; he ’s going straight away 
West. He won’t stay a single day on the Eastern 
coast.” 

“ There never was anything in that, eh ? ” asked the 
politician with curiosity. ^ 

Not much, I suppose,” said Mr. Langdon. 

“ Some fool of a fellow told me that she had refused 
him. That was likely, was n’t it ? I told him he talked 
the dam’dest stuff and nonsense. Refuse Dick ! ” 

It does n’t seem likely,” said Hervie ; “ but women 
are strange creatures — strange creatures.” 

‘‘ They don’t refuse Dick,” said Mr. Kirby, emphat- 
ically. 

“ I don’t profess to understand women,” said Mr. 
Langdon. ‘‘ Dick may fail with them for all I know ; 
but I am sure that he will succeed with the world at 


386 


DICKS WANDERING. 


large. He puts his foot where he means to put it ; and 
even those who have to make way can’t help liking him. 
With clear eyes, a strong will, and a smile like Dick’s, 
anybody might rule the world.” 

“ If you know so well how it ’s done,” said Mr. Kirby 
intending pleasantry, ‘‘ why have n’t you done it your- 
self ? ” 

“ I ? ” said Hervie Langdon smiling in his beard. “ I 
don’t care enough about putting my foot anywhere ; and 
instead of smiling, I ’ve a laugh which makes half the 
world jump, and the other half think that they are 
being laughed at. Besides, I ’m one of those who look 
on. But Dick will succeed. He ’ll do something some 
day. Shall we join the ladies ? ” 

I ’m agreeable,” said Mr. Kirby. 

That you always are,” said Mr, Langdon. 


CHAPTER LIL 


Mr. Kirby did riot notice any change in his host and 
cousin; and yet Hervie Langdon was right when he 
said that he was changed. Dick’s view of life during 
that autumn and winter had been more sober; he hoped 
that it was more true. He was inclined to expect less ; 
to narrow his plans ; to concentrate his attention on the 
next step before him. So he dismissed for the present 
his idea of a College for emigrants, and contented him- 
self with preparations for his trip to America. Even 
this plan was of necessity contracted, for of course his 
visit to the New World must now be of a strictly busi- 
ness character. He would visit Iowa and Wyoming, 
Dakota, Minnesota, and Manitoba. This trip would 
be his next step ; and he meant to get from it a great 
deal of useful information, which would enable him to 
help all sorts of people in the future, to give trustworthy 
information to politicians, and good advice to emigrants. 
The question of Parliament he would postpone with 
that of the College, and indeed with all other questions, 
until he came back from America. Nobody knew of 
Dick’s failure but his mother only ; and she kept it a 
profound secret. Some rumors there were, but they 
died at once, before they had persuaded anybody. 
Sophie Hartland’s pride, which was now almost wholly 
pride in her boy, made her shrink from the mere thought 
of this thing being known ; but yet it is likely enough 
that some cold look or quick criticism of hers, when 


388 


dick’s wandering. 


Miss Holcroft’s name was mentioned, had set the light 
rumors flying. However, nobody believed that the girl 
had refused so good an offer. It was not long before 
Mrs. Hartland for her part believed that from the first 
moment of their acquaintance she had known that Kitty 
Holcroft was a mere flirt. She soon succeeded in per- 
suading herself that Dick was unhurt; that, if he had 
not forgotten the girl, he thought very little about her. 
She found him cheerful and kind, and perhaps a little 
more careful of those little attentions which are dear 
to women when they love the giver. She wondered 
that any girl could refuse him ; she was sure that no 
nice girl could. 

So if Dick during those months of autumn and winter 
had been a little graver and more thoughtful, he had 
been kindly to all and had shown no lack of cheerfulness. 
And the days had passed quietly and not too slowly. 
There was to be no great change in his life ; and he had 
time to think. Life lay before him, and he meant to 
live it according to the best lights which he could find. 
If a certain grace and beauty had gone out of it forever, 
it never struck him that it was not worth while to live it 
with all the energy that was in him. He regarded his 
life more gravely ; he had had what Hervie Langdon 
called ‘‘ a steadier.” Day after day he had worked with 
admirable regularity, finding much healthy sustenance in 
colonial reports, and tables of statistics. He had always 
found pleasure in making well-arranged tables of figures, 
and in keeping note-books with neat indices ; but he had 
never before found these things so essential to his com- 
fort. He had been very busy during all these weeks ; 
and he had kept steadily before him the idea of carrying 
to America as much knowledge bearing on his future 


dick’s wandering. 


389 


observations there, as he could possibly digest. He had 
been more than ever impatient of idleness, which was 
apt to breed useless thoughts. When he was not read- 
ing, or discussing the subjects of his reading with Fabian 
Deane, he had ridden or walked, hunted or shot, with 
almost dogged persistence. For the rest, even Fabian 
had seen but little change in him, though he had some- 
times missed his outbursts- of high spirits, or had thought 
that a gallop did not excite him as it used to do. But 
he had put down these slight changes to the inevitable 
progress of years, and perhaps a little to the absence 
of Ossie, who was in London, looking with impressive 
solemnity for something to do. Mr. Osbert Langdon 
proposed to be something in the city ; ’’ and about 
noon he might often be seen driving eastward, with a 
serious face and a hothouse flower in his button-hole, 
looking out over the doors of his hansom for a regular 
occupation. He was to be married in the spring ; and 
he had taken to writing letters on business and matri- 
mony to his father, who laughed over them till he had 
to wipe his eyes. 

On the day after Mr. Kirby’s appearance at Glaring, 
Dick came back from London, whither he had gone at 
Ossie’s request to advise him about his affairs. Perhaps 
it was this break in the wholesome routine of his life, 
which made Dick restless on the next morning. Per- 
haps some rather clumsy pleasantries of the eminent 
guest, whom he found on his return home, stirred up 
again uncomfortable thoughts. He had seen Susan 
Bond in town, and had talked of her approaching wed- 
ding. He had never liked her so well. The responsi- 
bility which she was about to accept so gladly seemed 
to have had an excellent effect on her. She had made 


890 


dick’s wandering. 


no effort to impress Ossie^s cousin with her clevernesi 
and worldly wisdom. She had talked cheerfully and 
simply of the future, a great deal about Ossie, and very 
little about herself. Only when they parted, she had 
said to Dick with something of her old manner, “ You 
are sure you ain’t jealous of me?” Then Dick had 

laughed ; and she had said, ‘‘ You have yet to see how 

good I can be, when I have found somebody whom I 
may care about as much as I like ; ” and when Dick 
only laughed again, she had added, “ And I will make 
you like me some day ; I mean to be your favorite 

cousin.” So Dick had come back to Glaring with his 

thoughts busy with this young couple, who were going 
to make the great experiment so socm ; and, whether it 
was these thoughts or the sly hints of Mr. Kirby which 
made him restless, restless he undoubtedly was. 

The next morning was chilly and depressing, and 
Dick found that he could not fix his attention on his 
reports, his tables, and his note-books. Disturbing fan- 
cies came between his young eyes and the instructive 
page. He got up, and stared out of window at a gray 
and foggy world ; and after gazing into this for some 
time he made up his mind to cure himself, as he rarely 
failed to cure himself of idle fancies, by a determined 
tramp. He turned up the collar of his shooting-coat, 
took his stout ash stick, and plunged into a wintry air. 
Wintry it was, but there were signs enough that winter 
would not linger long. Though the hedges and trees 
were still bare, fields were just newly green with points 
of wheat, and a few young lambs were in the hurdles 
with the ewes. A wet gray blanket was over the land, 
and the white frost of the night before was fast melting 
The brown hedges were laden and dripping with water 


dick’s wandering. 


391 


drops, and Dick’s hair was soaked with mist before he 
had walked a mile. Nevertheless his blood grew warm, 
as he walked steadily forward, and bis head was clearer. 
He liked to feel the half-frozen ground crumble under 
his strong boots ; and the solitude suited his mood. 
There were few people on the road. Now he met a 
wagon of old hay, now an empty wagon ; two or three 
times he saw a laborer come plodding out of the mist. 
For the rest he seemed to have this melting world to 
himself, and as he stepped out stoutly therein, he seemed 
to be walking back to sure content. He had walked 
many miles, when he came back into the village of Glar- 
ing. As he was taking a short cut through the church 
yard, he heard the sound of the organ, and he went into 
the porch to listen. There was a voice in the choir, 
of which Mrs. Hartland and the Vicar were equally 
proud, for it had been born and taught in the village ; 
it was this voice which Dick heard as he stood still in 
the church-porch. His long solitary walk had made him 
well content to rest for a minute by the way ; and the 
music seemed to speak peace to him with an influence 
which he had not often felt. He was apt to be impatient 
of music, and a little contemptuous of people who went 
to it for easy emotions. Now, however, he was a lit- 
tle tired ; he was very quiet ; he yielded himself with 
out debate to the power of sound. After a time there 
was a silence, and then the voice began again. It seemed 
"o fill the church without an effort, and to come forth 
Boftly into the porch, where the mist dripped in silvery 
water from the roof. Oh, rest in the Lord,” the voice 
sang ; wait patiently for Him ; and He will give you 
your heart’s desire.” It was as if an angel had troubled 
the deep waters, which lie below the countless thoughts 


392 


dick’s wandering. 


and feelings of a busy life. Life seemed larger to Dick 
as he turned away ; though he must do bravely without 
her whom his heart desired. There were good things 
to do in the world ; and he walked home with a stout 
heart. 


CHAPTER LIIL 


Now Betty Torington had shrunk with a natural 
antipathy from that misty soaking day ; she had not 
been out of the house, and she was inclined to be a little 
cross with Dick, when he appeared with a fine color in 
his cheeks and demanded five o’clock tea. Moreover 
she had been left alonej and that was a grievance. Her 
father was playing billards with Mr. Kirby ; and Sophie 
Hartland was instructing some little maidens from the 
village. So Betty had been thinking pathetically of 
her devoted Jack, and had decided that she would never 
leave him again for a single day ; and when Dick came 
in with his provoking out-of-doors air, Betty was in- 
clined to scold him a little. When she had given him 
his tea, and had rebuked him for not amusing his 
guests, she happily remembered another ground of com- 
plaint. ‘‘ Who do you think I ’ve heard from ? ” sho 
asked. 

“ From Tory.” 

‘‘ Of course,” she said contemptuously. ‘‘ He writes 
every day. Who else ? ” As Dick refused to show a 
proper interest, she could not help telling him. I ’ve 
had a letter from Kitty,” she said. “ She writes the 
most amusing letters ; but I don’t think she ’s happy. I 
do wish she ’d stayed here to amuse me. Oh, Dick, 
what an old stupid you are ! ” She felt that Dick was 
looking at her now, though, as there was little light in 
the room but firelight, she could see his face but dimly. 


394 


dick’s wandering. 


There was a minute’s pause ; and then Dick asked, 
“ What makes you think she is n’t happy ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t know,” she said with lazy indifference ; 
^ but you were a great stupid, you know.” 

‘‘ Is she quite well ? ” he asked. 

‘‘ Of course she ’s quite well ; but I wish she was here. 
And to think that it ’s all your fault. You might just as 
well have asked her to stay. Why did n’t you ask her 
to stay ? ” She felt that this question was a little bold ; 
she had never ventured on this subject before ; but 
now she had an unconquerable desire to tease Dick. 
Since he said nothing, she went on more quickly. 
“ Kitty never would have gone if it had n’t been for 
that horrid Nelly Parkinson, — I ’ll never call her 
‘Nelly’ again. Wa’n’t it horrid of her to say that? 
But I dare say you believe it ; men are so vain.” 

“ If you will tell me,” said Dick quietly, “ what she 
did say, I ’ll tell you if I think it horrid.” 

And now Mrs. Torington felt a mild excitement, a 
pleasant surprise. “ Dick,” she said, “ don’t you really 
know? Everybody knows. Dick, I sometimes think 
that you don’t know anything.” 

“Not much, perhaps. What did this Mrs. Parkin- 
son say ? ” 

“ She went about everywhere saying that Kitty — 
she was awfully jealous of Kitty — she told everybody 
that Kitty had followed you about abroad, and that 
she ’d come to England on purpose to marry you.” She 
could not clearly see Dick’s face, on which the firelight 
played fitfully, but he got up quickly, as she finished 
speaking, and turned from her to lean his elbow on the 
mantelpiece. Presently he broke the silence by asking 
shortly, “ Did Miss Holcroft know what that woman 
was saying ? ” 


dick’s wandering. 


395 


“ Not till a very little while before she sailed. That 
horrid Nelly never rested till she did know. And of 
course it was the worst thing possible to say about Kitty ; 
for she was always thinking that Englishmen gave them- 
selves airs — and so you do — and that you throw the 
handkerchief, and all that. And Kitty is awfully proud ; 
and she would hate to run after anybody ; and I ’m cer- 
tain from what she said one day when we were talking, 
that you did think that the Holcrofts did come on to 
some ridiculous steamer somewhere in the East, because 
you were on it ; and that was too ridiculous, and just 
like the vanity of men. As if nice girls ever ran after 
men — except Susan and Ossie — but of course Ossie 
different.” Betty was somewhat exhausted by this 
speech ; and she lay back in her chair, with a comfort- 
able sense of having said a good deal to the point, and 
of having done her duty by scolding somebody. She 
now smiled on Dick with the best humor, knowing full 
well that he would not resent her fault-finding. She 
would have been surprised, if she could have read the 
thoughts of the man standing so near to her with his 
face in shadow. He stood there saying nothing ; and 
presently in that pleasant twilight her lids began to 
droop, and she looked into the fire with drowsy eyes. 
But in her ratnbling words Dick had found something 
which filled him with quick thoughts, and with a strong 
new hope. It seemed to explain the inexplicable. And 
yet he would not be in a hurry. He knew that he must 
be cautious, and look well to the grounds of this new 
hope. It might be that she cared for him after all ; and 
if she cared for him, he could not measure the beauty 
which would come back into his life. But yet — he 
looked at Betty, and saw that she had fallen asleep with 


396 


dick’s wandering. 


her lips, like a baby’s, parted. He went softly out and 
to his own room, and there he set himself to think, and 
would not dream. 

On the same night Dick was in his mother’s room. 
He could not sleep before he had told her what he 
meant to do. At first she was frightened ; and her fear 
for him made her speak more quickly and less kindly to 
her boy than she had spoken to him for a long time 
past. 

Dick listened patiently till she said some hard thing 
about Kitty, and even then he stopped her gently 
enough. “ Ah, mother,” he said, “ I love her.” 

Then Sophie Hartland was quiet for a time, drying 
her eyes ; and at last she said, with a faint smile after 
tears, ‘‘ Of course you will do what you have made up 
your mind to do. I ought to have learnt that by this 
time.” 

“ And this time at least I am right,” said Dick with a 
strong smile responsive to her doubtful one ; ‘‘ I have 
felt all along that she cared for me more than for other 
people ; I know I can make her love me ; I think I can 
make her happy ; I will try with all my heart to make 
her happy. At the worst, I am strong enough to stand 
it ; and it need not add much to my American trip. I 
can stand it, whatever happens — and you must stand it 
too, mother.” 

“ You must n’t think of me,” she said ; “ I want you 
to think of yourself ; I am so afraid for you ; I did hope 
that it was all over. Oh, Dick, can’t you make up your 
mind not to go — not to run the risk of hurting your- 
self again?” She came and put her arms round his 
neck, and looked into his face. 

“ I must go,” he said gravely ; ‘‘ I must go. Suppose 


dick’s wandering. 


397 


that she should be unhappy now because of me ! ” He 
laughed, as he suggested this possibility, and Sophie 
Hartland could not help smiling in answer. “We must 
not risk that,” he said “ must we ? Better that I should 
suffer a dozen times, than run the risk of leaving her 
sorry, — even a little sorry.” 

She was only half reconciled ; but he seemed to her 
very chivalrous ; she could not help being proud of his 
chivalry. He made her sit down again in her chintz 
arm-chair by the fire, and brought the footstool for her 
little slippered feet. “ You see, you must n’t think seri- 
ously of the thing,” he said ; “ you must think that my 
American journey is the same ; and that on my way I 
am going to see the Holcrofts, as I promised I would. 
That ’s all. I shall come back with lots of highly val- 
uable information, and with something better, — the 
best thing in the world, I think.” 

“ If I could only be sure,” she began, and stopped. 
She was afraid ; and yet it was easy to believe that this 
girl could not help caring for her boy, that she must 
have had some other reason for refusing him. 

“ I am sure,” said Dick bravely ; “ I felt it all along 
— just as I felt how good she was. My mistake was 
that I would bother myself by thinking ; I ought to have 
known without thinking. I felt all along that she was 
the best girl in the world — and that I might win her, 
if I tried.” 

His mother’s prudent counsels were at an end. As he 
stooped to kiss her, she put her arms round his neck 
again, and held him a minute, as if she could not bear to 
let him go. “I hope that you are right,” she said; 
“Dick, my darling, I do hope that you are right.’' 
And he was right. 




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THE POACHER. 12mo. Paper, 60 cents ; cloth, $1.26. 

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PERCIVAL KEENE. 12mo. Paper, 60 cents ; cloth, $1.26. 

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NO INTENTIONS. 8vo. Paper, 75 cents. 

MY OWN CHILD. 8vo. Paper, 76 cents. 


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MR. OLDMIXON. 12mo. Cloth, $1.60. 

A STRONG-MINDED WOMAN. 12mo. Cloth, $1.60. 

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HOME SCENES AND HEART STUDIES. 

WOMAN’S FRIENDSHIP. A Story of Domestic Life. 

THE WOMEN OF ISRAEL. Characters and Sketches from the 
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THE VALE OF CEDARS; or, The Martyr. 

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AMY HERBERT. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00. 

CLEVE HALL. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00. 

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DOVE IN THE EAGLE’S NEST. 18mo. Cloth, $1.00. 

THE TWO GUARDIANS. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00. 
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DORIS’S FORTUNE. 12mo. Paper, 26 cents. 

A VAGRANT IVIFE. 12mo. Paper, 26 cents. 

A PRINCE OF DARKNESS. 12mo. Paper, 26 cents. 

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NOT WISELY 9 BUT TOO WELL. 8vo. Paper, 30 cents. 
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RED AS A ROSE IS SHE. 8vo. Paper, 30 cents. 12mo. 
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